Lost in the Dream
by Robin Birdie
Summary: Peter wanted to take his life. Deadpool promised to become a hero. Heroes didn't let people die. Peter wasn't sure he could ever forgive him for 'saving' him . . . (Complete)
1. Chapter 1

**Lost in the Dream**

The city looked almost beautiful . . .

It always did at this time of night, but this was the first time he remembered _truly_ seeing it. It was the first time that he remembered watching the sunset, as the light changed from golden to red in the landscape, and it was the first time he remembered seeing the sky go from a deep blue into a shade of black almost eerie in its intensity. There were thousands – if not millions – of lights that flickered and shone like small beacons of hope, only there could _be_ no hope, because the brightest lights of the city were already extinguished.

He felt a chill from the ledge. There was a cold breeze, enough that he could physically see every exhale of breath, whilst the tips of his fingers felt numb, even inside the depths of his jacket's pockets. The thin layer of frost on the roof looked striking, so that he felt something rise inside his chest . . . Gwen would have loved the sight of it, as she had a thing for patterns in nature and natural beauty. In a strange way, it was as if she were still with him. The few months since her death were surreal . . . numb . . . dark . . . there were times where he would reach for his phone to give her news, only to realise she was gone . . . there were times when he would reach climb to her window, only to see an empty room.

They said the pain would stop . . . in a way it did.

Peter looked down at the city and felt _nothing_. There was a hollow feeling in his chest, an emptiness that he couldn't shake, and lately he felt unable to feel anything. He couldn't remember feeling hungry, thirsty or sleepy . . . life was nothing but a routine . . . a set of nouns as someone once told him. In the morning he would follow a mental list: get up, wash, go to college, go home, eat, study, sleep. Tonight was no different. It was simply a different list: scale the building, stand on the ledge, and prepare to do the inevitable. The only strange thing was how his heart raced . . . he felt almost afraid, but not quite . . .

"I'm sorry, Gwen," he whispered. "Harry . . . Uncle Ben . . ."

The tears came before he could stop them, enough that he felt his throat become tight and the air leave his lungs, until the anxiety hit and left him in a state of hyperventilation. It made his throat hurt to inhale the cold air so rapidly, whilst his head and arms felt as if something were crawling over his skin, and soon he felt light-headed and weak, so that the ledge under his trainers felt as if it might give way at any moment. The world spun around him. There was no way to see the stars above with the light pollution, but he could see the streets below.

There was nothing but the sounds of hooting cars, hollering pedestrians, and noises that he couldn't quite make out. They blurred and bled into one another. The sting to his eyes didn't help matters, as he struggled to see through the blur of tears, but – as he inched forward – he knocked a pebble that fell from the ledge and began a descent downwards. It let out a strange series of sounds, which were eventually consumed by the cacophony below, and he felt pulled down with it, lost amongst the melody of the streets, and if he _just_ stepped forward -! It would all be at an end, wouldn't it? He could breathe again, think again . . . he'd be free.

' _Yo, kid! What are you doing_?'

It only needed one step. It just needed him to be brave enough to step forward. He could finally make amends for everything that he did . . . if he were just a better friend to Harry, if he were just a better boyfriend for Gwen, and if he were a better nephew to Uncle Ben . . . they all deserved better. Everything he touched would die. He was a disappointment. He was a failure. They would be safer without him, just as the team would be greater without him, and all he needed to do was to step off the ledge.

Peter drew in a deep breath and let one foot dangle.

' _Hey. Hey! You'll get yourself killed_!'

The pain hit him before he could realise the cause. It was a massive blow to his side, followed by the sensation of falling – although not as much as he expected – and the grating feeling upon his side, where his skin felt raw and cut up about the face, and there was likely bruising over his shoulder and hip. He could heal from such wounds, but what would be the point? Peter blinked through the tears and red spots, only to see a shadowy figure above him, and he couldn't help but to roll onto his back. There was someone else there. They must have jumped him and pushed him away from the ledge . . . they stopped him . . . they -!

It – it could have been over! It could have been over, but instead he was lying there _humiliated_ and at the mercy of some wannabe hero! He panted, as his eyes adjusted, before he realised just who knelt above him. _Deadpool_. That red-and-black mask was clear as day, just as the muscular body and unique odour were pretty clear, too, and Peter felt such a raw mixture of anger and sadness . . . emotions he forgot that he was capable of feeling . . . he – he wanted to die and this man – this man _beyond_ death – stopped him! It – it wasn't -!

He punched Deadpool square across the face. There was the sound of what may have been bone breaking, complete with skin upon that annoyed leathery material, and followed with a groan of pain and the slap of a body upon the rooftop just beside him. He – he couldn't breathe! The tears were down his cheeks, so that he could taste the salty liquid, and he retched awfully unable to hold onto the contents of his stomach, until he tasted acid and was forced to swallow. It wasn't fair! _It wasn't fair!_ It would be so easy to scream or lash out or beat Deadpool to a pulp, but what good would it do? What good would anything do? Nothing held any meaning anymore, nothing meant anything, and nothing felt real . . .

"Damn, kid! You have one hell of a punch!"

"Go – go to hell!" Peter rolled onto his stomach and began to choke. "You – you have _no right_ -! You have _no right at all_ to stop me from – from -! You're such a mother-hugger, Deadpool! Y-you – you – you have no idea – you don't know -! I – I just -!"

"Whoa there! You've heard of me? That's great!" Deadpool crawled into a sitting position, as he rubbed his jaw. "Well, maybe not 'great' great, but still great! I'm aiming to be a hero, you know? Okay, maybe you _don't_ know. It's not as though I get any good press! Even when I do good, it's like I'm doing bad! Still, I saw you and it was like: 'what would Spidey do?'"

"Hasn't anyone told you? Spider-Man retired."

"You believe everything you read?"

Deadpool stood shakily on his feet, before he lifted his mask and spat on the floor. The mixture that fell was red with blood, so that it was clear the punch did a lot of damage, and – as he lowered the mask again – Peter was sure that the older man was smiling. It was that smile – _that infuriating smile_ – that drove him insane, as he felt almost . . . well . . . _mocked_. It was bad enough to get empty platitudes from those around him, worse still to see life move on as if those he loved weren't lost . . . were never there to start . . . now – now _this_ -? He hurt. He hurt and he wanted to jump and this man – _this man_ -!

He – he just wanted to be _heard_! It was one thing for Deadpool to talk about being a 'hero', but what kind of hero prolonged someone's pain? What kind of hero just _stood_ there whilst – whilst – _whilst the world fell apart_! Peter climbed to his feet, as he felt an overwhelming sense of loss and injustice and _anger_ . . . it was a feeling that he last felt when his uncle died, something that he swore he wouldn't let himself feel again, but it made his blood boil and the tears fall, so that he became dizzy with emotion and sensations.

"Hey, you want to tell me where you live so -?"

Peter let out a powerful punch. It sent Deadpool back a good few steps, before the older man raised a closed fist to his mouth to press against the masked lips. He barely had time to react before Peter sent forth another punch, followed by another and another and another . . . he – he couldn't stop. It was all just so – so – so -! If he stopped, he was sure that he would break down into hysterical tears. There was something almost cathartic about attacking Deadpool, especially when a part of him knew that he couldn't hurt the older man anyway, but just because there wasn't lasting damage . . . it didn't mean it wouldn't _hurt_ , did it?

It was the only hesitation that Deadpool needed. Peter paused briefly between punches, as he felt an intense wave of guilt and shame, enough that he felt a rush of sickness well up in his throat that choked him to the point of retching. Deadpool took advantage of that weakness. He launched forward and pinned Peter against the wall, with the teenager's hands pinned on either side of his head, and he felt so helpless . . . caught by Deadpool, unable to stop the pain or die like he deserved . . . he – he couldn't stop the tears.

"You're lucky you're just a kid," said Deadpool coldly.

The older man let go of his wrists, where they began to instantly ache and looked badly bruised when Peter let them fall to his sides. It was difficult to see through the tears, harder still to hear through the broken sobs and heaved breaths, but he could still sense the fury in Deadpool's body. The mask hid the extent of the glare, although he could see the tension to his muscles and make out the flexing of Deadpool's fingers. Peter sniffed and looked away.

"Who taught you how to fight?" Deadpool asked.

"My adopted dad," muttered Peter. "I – I went kind of off the rails when my uncle died. My – my aunt said – she said that . . ." Peter shrugged. "It – it doesn't matter. My aunt died . . . Tony took me in, taught me to fight in the ring rather than the streets. He's . . . a good guy."

"So good that you came all this way into the bad side of town? Yeah, that makes sense! I always find a tall building to climb to throw myself off! Well, okay, I _may_ have done that once or twice, although I kind of prefer the bridge -! _Should we be giving him tips?_ It's not as if we can make things any worse at this point. Shut up, you know our narration mode is broken! Anyway, where was I? Yeah, that was it! Why'd you want to die for?"

"Why – why do you _care_? You don't know . . . you wouldn't _understand_! Everyone – _everyone_ – I love dies . . . they die because of _me_! My parents . . . my uncle . . . my girlfriend, my best friend, my aunt -! T-that isn't to mention the bullying, the abuse, the pressure to keep up my grades, trying . . . trying to live up to their memory and redeem myself . . ."

"You know what I'd tell you, if you were my daughter?"

"'Stop being a brat, lots of people have it worse'?"

"No! _Yes._ No."

Peter sniffed, as he rubbed at his face. He just wanted to collapse on the roof and sleep away the night, too tired to move and too tired to even think, but Deadpool appeared to be arguing with himself and pacing the roof, so that his boots crunched on the surface and the material of his suit squeaked with his odd movements. The truth was that he had no idea Deadpool had a daughter, let alone heard voices to the extent that he did, and maybe – _just maybe_ – there was a depth to the masked man that others took for granted. Maybe he understood . . .

"You know the difference between you and me?" Deadpool asked.

"I – I wouldn't know where to begin, actually . . ."

"My head grows back when I shoot it."

It was said so bluntly . . .

Deadpool put two fingers to his chin, as he mimed blowing out the back of his head. He completed the gesture by spinning around and collapsing on the floor, before his legs and arms shook and he made a gagging noise, and – graphic as the act was – he jumped back up and gave a bow of pride. It left Peter unsure about what to feel. The idea of being _unable_ to die felt like a living hell, as there wasn't anything he wanted _more_ than death . . . to sleep, to find peace, to end the pain . . . still, would being unable to die change his viewpoint?

He looked out to the cityscape, tempted to walk _into_ it, but something must have shown in his eyes . . . Deadpool struck him across the chest, knocking him back into the wall, before he passed the action off as a 'playful' one, as he patted him overly-hard on his shoulder. The cold air hurt Peter's throat, as he drew in a sharp exhale of breath. It was disorientating to feel the pain in his chest and shoulder, more so to hear Deadpool laugh over the noises of the city, and he felt so disassociated . . . the city held over _eight million_ people, but not one did he feel a connection towards. He could watch them mill about below, but he would never be a part of them. He would never be _one_ of them. It was a feeling that cut deep to the core. He felt alone.

"You – do you -?" Peter swallowed hard. "Do you know how it feels?"

"Nope!" Deadpool smirked dangerously when he saw Peter's face fall. "I have _no_ idea how it feels to be you! I'm not in _your_ head, am I? I can tell you how it feels for me, though! It feels like life is one of those bad dreams, you know? Like one of those _really_ bad ones, but the ones that _feel_ real and you _know_ you're dreaming, so you have some control, only shit goes down and you're scared as fuck, but – _guess what_ – you can't wake up! You're there in your head _screaming_ at yourself to wake up, but you can't!

"Life kind of gets to be a dream. It don't feel real. You go on and on and on and on and on, but nothing happens! There's no beginning and no end and _– fuck_ – that gets way depressing! Only you start to forget you ever _were_ happy, so you _only_ know sadness, and when you only know sadness then it's hard to find any happiness! There's no way out. Nothing feels real, so what does it matter if you hurt yourself? It's not like anyone would give a flying fuck, right? Plus you get to finally _wake up_! It's like life's one big waiting room and who likes waiting? You think death is real and you get lost in the dream . . . if you just wake up, the nightmare is over. Death is the big wake-up call! Anything to stop the pain, am I right?"

Peter gave a sad smile, as he wiped at his eyes. There was something both apt and ridiculous about what Deadpool said, but he summed up Peter's feelings rather well . . . the disassociation, the sense of purposelessness, the feeling of defeat . . . he felt resigned to death, because it was the only way out he could see. The pain was unbearable, so anything that could end that pain . . . ease his suffering . . . but then no one eased Gwen's suffering, did they? This may have been his punishment. This may have been his karma.

He fell back against the brick wall and slid to the floor. The rooftop underfoot crunched and crackled, whilst the brick behind him felt rough and cold, and he felt so much smaller than he usually did as he hugged his legs to himself. Peter leaned back his head and stared upwards to the sky, where even the stars themselves seemed hidden out of sight, and a part of him remembered how his uncle once told him that his parents would watch over him from those same stars, but if that were true -? They couldn't see him now. It was probably for the best, as they couldn't see how low he fell, but he felt ashamed and Deadpool was _right_. He just wanted the pain to _stop_ , but this was the only way he knew how to stop it.

It was then that the tears fell faster than ever, as he drew in shaking sobs. There was little to be embarrassed about at that point, especially when he hoped to be just a memory to Deadpool soon enough, and yet he felt a broken smile creep on his face nonetheless. He was laughing through his tears, as he ran a hand through his messy hair. It was only a moment later that he pulled up the hood of his top and leaned his face into his knees, desperate to hide his face, even as Deadpool collapsed down next to him and draped a hand over his shoulders.

"Aw, come on, kid!" Deadpool chirped. "There's still hope for you!"

"There – there really isn't," said Peter. "T-Tony tries, but I'm – I'm scared to get too close, because he's this _someone_ and I'm this _no one_. I don't want him to die, just because he decided to take me in, and I can't deal with the guilt of everyone I've already lost. G-Gwen had her whole _life_ ahead of her! She had these – these dreams of going to England after graduation, only she n-never made it that far . . . she died because of me."

"No one dies _because_ of you! Unless you pull the trigger or stab them with the knife or push them off the building or -! You know, I managed to kill a guy once with a toaster, a slice of cheese, and a cow? It was so awesome! Anyway, you don't seem the murderous sort! I know, trust me! I have a chair made out of -! Hey, is that a smile? _You're smiling_!"

"S-shut up! I-I'm not smiling, I'm just -!"

Peter turned his head slightly. He rested one ear upon his knee, whilst the rest of his face peeked out from under the oversized hood. It felt strange to feel both happy and sad all at once, unable to determine how he felt or thought, but there was something comforting about being _with_ someone and not being alone. The pain was still there, made worse by the realisation that – when Deadpool left – there would be no distraction from it, and he wondered how he let things get so far. It was all so unbearable.

"It's just the first time I've spoken about this . . ."

"Nah, you mean it's the first time anyone's _listened_!" Deadpool poked him hard on his forehead. "No one wants to think their kid's sad! Plus, people _want_ to believe the smile! It's a better mask than an _actual_ mask! You can have your arms cut to ribbons, cry yourself to sleep at night, and be planning where to get those sleeping medicines to overdose on . . . so long as you smile, no one will know shit! People hear what they want to hear."

"And they want to hear that I'm okay? I – I don't know. I don't know why they would _care_ , to be honest, because the only person left that cared about me was my aunt, but now she's gone and I'm stuck just -! Thank you, anyway . . . thank you for trying. You – you can go now, I – I'll head home or something . . . I'd feel weird doing it right now . . ."

"Oh, so the jail-bait doesn't want to do it _now_? Huh, well, knowing that it's still in your mind and you're all squishy and fragile and human -! Where's home, kiddo? I have enough blood on my hands without yours, too! I showered last week, I don't want to wash again so soon!"

"I – I'm not telling you where I live! Do I _look_ insane to you?"

"No, you look suicidal. Don't make me steal your ID!"

"You wouldn't dare to -!"

Peter lifted his head to glare at Deadpool. He could tell that his eyes were bloodshot with black bags beneath, simply from how they felt, and he could feel a deep ache over all his muscles, as well as a flush to his cheeks. It was oddly exposing, but – more than that – he could see something behind Deadpool's mask that matched his depression in its intensity. There was a sense of duty that Peter hadn't felt since his days as Spider-Man so many months ago, and he knew – in that moment – Deadpool _would_ dare to search and frisk him for his identification, which made Peter throw back his head in anger. There was a painful smack.

"Fine, I live at Stark Tower," he snapped.

Deadpool let out a loud laugh as Peter stood up. He rubbed the back of his head and pulled his hand back to see a spot of blood, which made him pray that it wasn't a concussion, because the last thing he wanted was medical attention. The older man stood up next to him, clearly disbelieving him, and – hunched over and feeling weak from malnutrition – it seemed that Deadpool towered over him, even if there were only a four-inch difference at most. Deadpool leaned downward so that they were eye-to-eye.

"No way! You mean _the_ Stark Tower?"

"I – that is – I mean -!" Peter bit his lip. "Yeah, _that_ tower."

"So that makes Tony Stark your adopted dad, right? That's so cool! You know he has this hot girlfriend and is all flirty with Captain America and -! Captain America sat on my lap once. He's got buns of _steel_! I'm so jealous! Hey, do you see Spider-Man around?"

"I told you that Spider-Man is retired. I haven't seen him in –"

"You've seen him? No fair! No way!"

Deadpool clasped his hands together and leaned further down, whilst his mask stretched in such a way that made him seem open-mouthed, and Peter felt a devastating sensation that the older man was a _lot_ younger mentally than he was physically. They rarely had time to talk properly and personally in costume, whilst Peter would admit to underestimating him quite a lot, and it wasn't as if Deadpool knew the truth that Peter was actually Spider-Man, so this was perhaps the first intimate look at the other man. Deadpool gave a rather girlish sound and swung around, as he kicked a leg backwards in something like a ballerina pose.

"I have this poster of him over my bed!"

"Why do you seem so happy?" Peter asked. "Is this that 'mask' thing?"

"Well, it's kind of stained now, but what can you do, right?" Deadpool gave a strange 'victory' pose. "I know he's hardly the level of hot as Black Widow, but he's so super adorable! We teamed up _loads_ back in the day! I can't believe you've seen him around! _If we drop him off, we might be able to see Spidey again!_ I do believe he is retired. He can't be retired! Plus, we have a duty to take the teen to the tower! _Alliteration, cool!_ Idiots."

"You – you can't just 'drop me off'! The – the only people home are Pepper and Bruce, anyway! D-d-do you know how much they'd panic, if you – if you told them I -? You can't do that! I can't – I can't hurt anyone else! I can't! I just _can't_ , Deadpool."

"Cable once told me: 'if you feel guilty, you obviously know it was wrong'."

"Fine, I was wrong, but I -! _Whoa, put me down! Down_!"

It was then that Deadpool threw Peter over his shoulder, in a fireman's hold, and suddenly Peter felt _far_ more embarrassed than depressed. The man's _buttocks_ were not far from his face. There was also the fact that – save for hips – there was nowhere to grab or hold, not unless he wanted to touch or punch something far too intimate and private with his bare hands, and he was beginning to feel a blood-rush and sense of nausea. Peter struggled, but Deadpool was _strong_. He held on enough that fighting his way out was impossible.

"No can do, baby boy!"

He was forced to close his eyes when Deadpool jumped. There was something oddly terrifying about diving from roof to roof without his webs, especially when his life rested in the hands of an ex-mercenary . . . one still prepared to kill and one still with a death wish. It made it impossible to follow how they got to the tower from halfway across the city, but time felt somewhat off as of late anyway, whilst Peter's mind shut down with the movements, so that he barely cared how they got to the tower. It felt as if it didn't matter.

The tower appeared almost magically before him, as it jumped him out of his daze and forced him back into reality. He wondered how much time he lost. Deadpool dropped him to his feet, before he grabbed him by his wrist and dragged him inside, and suddenly they were in the elevator and Deadpool was prodding Peter to give J.A.R.V.I.S. instructions to take them upstairs. It didn't feel real, as if he were walking in a dream and waiting to wake up, but that only reminded him of Deadpool's earlier words, so that he had to choke back a laugh and fight back his tears. Deadpool didn't seem to notice, but merely dragged him out of the lift.

They headed into the private floor, directly into the living room, where Bruce sat quietly on the sofa reading a magazine. Peter pulled at the cords of his hood, so that the material scrunched around his face and hid him from view, and ducked into a shadowy corner as Deadpool took the main stage. The masked man dove onto the sofa opposite Bruce, as he dropped muddy feet onto the coffee table, and Peter turned his back on them, desperate to stay hidden from sight. The floor-to-ceiling windows provided a good distraction.

" _Deadpool_?" Bruce asked. "What are you doing here?"

"I found this kid lurking about on a roof! Do you want him?"

"Deadpool . . ." Bruce pulled off his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose. "Where did you find this young man? Do I need to alert the authorities or his parents that he's actually safe? You didn't . . . well . . . _kidnap_ him, did you?"

"I didn't try to kidnap him! He tried to kill himself!"

Bruce raised an eyebrow in suspicion. He replaced his glasses and threw the magazine he read onto the table, which looked something like a scientific publication. The scientist looked slightly older than his years lately, although his close friendship with Tony seemed to bring him out of his shell at times, and – honestly – Peter thought he _might_ have seen Natasha flirt with Bruce a few times, but he still looked timid and unsure about himself, as if confidence were a foreign concept. He undid the top button of his loose shirt and sighed sadly.

"I'd suggest taking him to a _hospital_ , then," said Bruce.

"Why? You're a doctor, aren't you?" Deadpool shrugged and wafted a hand dismissively. "It doesn't matter, anyway. The kid said he lives here. I figured the Avengers would be the best people to deal with him, but even more so when his dad is _the_ Tony Stark! So I -!"

"Wait! _Peter_? Is that you, _Peter_?"

Peter flinched and turned around fully, unable to watch the two men in the reflection of the glass for much longer, and he saw Bruce stand up and gaze over to him with a somewhat nervous expression. He was hunched slightly, although for different reasons than Peter, and he scratched awkwardly at his neck on sight of the seventeen-year-old, until he took a few steps closer and stopped. Bruce drew in several deep breaths to calm and centre himself, as the very last thing he likely wanted was to panic or stress himself.

"Er, it's me," admitted Peter sadly.

"Is – is what Deadpool is saying true?"

Peter shrugged as he walked into the room a little further, before pulling down his hood and staring sadly at the floor with an empty expression. He almost wished that it were Pepper or Steve that caught him, because at least they would have shown their concern outright, but instead Bruce seemed to live in a grey area. It was hard to tell whether he was sad, disappointed, angry or -! Peter drew in a broken breath and closed his eyes for a few seconds, as he felt the tears rise and the embarrassment sink in. What did Bruce think of him?

He didn't want to say the words, because to admit it aloud made it _real_. There was an absolute terror that – if his surrogate family _knew_ – they would do everything they could to stop him, which meant he would be kept in this horrifying purgatory for a while longer, until the opportunity to take his life came around again, but how long would that take? He also knew how much it would hurt them. He didn't want to hear Natasha's seemingly cold interrogation of _why_ he wanted to die, as she was too much like an aunt to him, and he couldn't bear the idea of looking at Bruce and seeing heartbreak, especially when the other man endured so much. It – it wasn't fair on any of them. He wanted to run and hide.

"It's true," he whispered. "I tried to . . . _hurt_ myself."

Bruce looked briefly to the ceiling, where he appeared to count silently for a long while, and then – as he looked to Peter – a look of great sadness washed over him, along with shame and guilt. It was common knowledge that Bruce couldn't have children. Tony and Steve were almost like surrogate fathers to him, whilst Pepper was almost like a mother, but Bruce -? Bruce was always more of a mentor and a friend, and Bruce always saw him from the start as a potential son and a protégé. They spent as much time in the laboratory together as they each did with Tony, so Bruce likely wondered where he went wrong. He blamed himself.

"We need to talk," said Bruce. "This is serious, Peter."

"Yeah . . . y-yeah, I guess it is . . ."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"Why'd you do it, Peter?"

Peter winced at the question. It was too soon to think about the consequences; the truth was that he still thought his choice was the right one, especially in the long run, but he could _hear_ the pain in Bruce's voice, and it was heart-breaking. He felt his heart race, as his breath left him in one swoop. This was exactly what he wanted to avoid . . . _hurting_ people. The whisper to Bruce's words – the slight gasp at the start, the way his lips trembled – hurt Peter, almost as if he physically struck the older man and felt the blood pour over his hands . . .

They sat opposite one another on the sofas, whilst Deadpool reclined next to Peter. It was somewhat disorientating to feel Deadpool's silence, as the masked man was almost _always_ running his mouth at full power, but he appreciated his silence. There was the almost paranoid feeling that Deadpool was listening and analysing, using the mask to hide his alertness and eye-contact, but – knowing the man for who he was – he could equally have been humming the 'macarena' in his head, whilst picturing naked people. The comforting thing was that there was absolutely no judgement. It didn't matter whether the masked man was listening or not, because he wasn't making him feel guilty or worse.

"I don't know," said Peter quietly. "I just . . . did."

Bruce gave a heavy sigh and ran his hands over his face. The older man looked substantially paler than usual, whilst his eyes were somewhat wet with unshed tears, and he looked to Peter with a somewhat broken smile, as he steepled his hands against his lips. He pulled at the skin just enough to make him look older than his years, as he seemed to hold back tears. It was difficult to look upon. Peter turned his head to Deadpool, but the masked man just shrugged and scratched at his private place with some enthusiasm. He fought back a smile.

"This isn't a funny situation, Peter," said Bruce firmly.

"I – I know! This – this is hard for me, too, you know? I keep – I keep looking at you and I -! I feel _awful_ , Bruce! I feel awful, because if I didn't _fail_ then I wouldn't have to see how much pain you're in right now! Instead I feel guilty and ashamed and – and I just – I just -!"

"Do you think I _wouldn't_ feel devastated, even if you weren't here to see it?"

"You – you would have gotten over it eventually . . ."

"I hope you honestly don't believe that."

Peter swallowed hard. The beating of his heart was hard to ignore, but he also felt somewhat dizzy and panicked. It was then that the 'flight-or-fight' instinct that began to kick in, so that he felt trapped and enclosed, enough that he wanted to _run_ far away from Bruce and simply find somewhere to be alone. He felt like grabbing the roots of his hair and screaming, just as he felt like curling into a ball to cry, and everything felt so confusing and conflicted and – and – and _painful_. He never meant to hurt Bruce, but he hurt Bruce greatly.

"I'm not the right person to have this talk," said Bruce.

Bruce stood up shakily, as he rolled his head back and forth. It – it felt like a dismissal, as if the older man couldn't bear to stay in the same room as him, and even the way he rubbed his neck made him seem nervous and uncertain. Peter began to gulp in deep breaths. He – he knew – he knew that _logically_ he was reading too much into things, because Bruce _loved_ him dearly and would _never_ intentionally hurt him, but his heart felt otherwise . . . he could have spared Bruce _all_ of this, if he just -! Peter tasted blood.

He must have been biting his lip, but – when he raised his hand to his mouth – he couldn't see any blood and he realised his skin was pale. Bruce gave him a sad smile, before he dropped a hand lightly onto Peter's shoulder, where he gave a squeeze and walked away with an expression almost impossible to read. It was enough that Peter squeezed his eyes shut and felt a sting that he couldn't quite erase, as he realised one more person was walking away from him . . . one more person not quite in his life . . . one more person to give up. He – he couldn't endure being alone any longer. Deadpool kicked him lightly in the shin. The gesture was sudden and forced his eyes open, where he saw Bruce now in the open kitchen.

"Do you want wheat-cakes?"

Bruce asked the question so quietly that it was almost missed. It took Peter a moment to look over and see his mentor smile nervously from across the counter, before he realised that Bruce liked to _do_ and not to _talk_. He was a man that wanted peace, especially for those he loved to be okay, but he struggled to find the temperament to be the 'sympathetic ear' or the 'agony uncle'. He preferred to express his love in other ways, whether that was helping out with work or by providing a hot cup of coffee. It was a meaningful gesture in hindsight.

"Y-you – you w-want to – to cook?" Peter asked.

"They're your favourite, aren't they?" Bruce asked in turn. "I'll make some. It'll hopefully cheer you up, just a little . . . I – er – know a doctor that I can ring whilst you eat. He's good. It'll all be confidential, but you can talk to him . . . begin treatment . . . learn to cope . . ."

"Wheat-cakes? Are those like pancakes?" Deadpool dropped his feet to the floor and smacked his thighs loudly with his hands. "You know that one box of batter makes like two-hundred-and-five servings? Well, something like that! I make the best pancakes ever! I once filled a whole swimming pool full! It's cathartic to make. Hey, is that why you're making them? It's such a good distraction! Kid's name is 'Peter', right? I don't mind teaching -!"

"Deadpool, now isn't really the time. No amount of cookery lessons will cure a severe depression, but . . . well . . . your heart's in the right place, so thank you. Why don't you leave a number? I'll let you know how Peter's coping later. _Right_ , J.A.R.V.I.S., I need you to contact Tony, Steve and Pepper. Try not to worry them . . . please?"

' _I have already contacted them, Mr Banner,_ ' said the disembodied voice. ' _Mr Stark predicts an estimated arrival time of ten minutes. Ms Potts shall be arriving with him. Mr Rogers is currently ascending with Ms Romanoff. Will that be all, Mr Banner_?'

"Right now? I think so," said Bruce. "Deadpool, are you okay?"

The dismissal was far less rude than it would have been from Tony, but it was a clear nonetheless, so that Peter felt overlooked again. He might have loathed Deadpool as Spider-Man, but as Peter -? It was nice to have someone to distract him. It was nice to have someone understand him. It was nice not to have to worry about making the situation worse, plus he liked not seeing judgement or a demand for answers . . . there was no _pressure_. Still, Deadpool was more astute than the others gave him credit; he sensed the brush-off.

"To leave?" Deadpool asked. "Yeah, yeah, I get the hint!"

He jumped up, before he reached down to poke Peter in the forehead. He used two fingers, whilst the jab was pretty hard and hurt a fair amount, and – behind the white material that sat in the midst of the black – he thought he saw Deadpool wink. It made him smile slightly, before he saw Deadpool spin around and drop his number down onto the table, whilst he waved at Bruce to get his attention and eventually gave up, so that his body sagged in frustration and he waved a hand in the air like wafting away a bad smell.

Deadpool strolled towards the elevator. It was only when Peter heard the doors open that he moved, where he quickly snatched up the paper and shoved it into his pocket, and he knew without doubt that Bruce – although he would keep his word should he know about the number – would likely just assume Deadpool never left the number at all. There was something oddly comforting about having a way to contact the masked man, because with some contact to Deadpool then he was far less alone. He – he knew that he was grasping at straws, but this provided him with some _control_ , especially over his own recovery . . . if there were a recovery. Already everyone was rushing back for him, booking doctors for him . . .

He didn't realise that his eyes were welling up with tears, not until he heard the elevator reach them and heard the sound of Deadpool quickly diving inside, along with raised voices and the disgusted tone of Natasha's voice. The conversation between Natasha, Steve and Deadpool didn't last long, but it was long enough that he began to hyperventilate and even the smell of the wheat-cakes couldn't comfort him in the least. They would soon come in, but then would come the questions and the essential interrogation and being told what would happen next and -! May would have given him _space_. Ben would have _listened_ to him.

' _See you around, Petey_!'

Peter jumped visibly. The elevator doors closed, whilst Bruce came over with a shake of his head and a bright smile. He put a plate of wheat-cakes onto the table beside Peter, before he sat opposite him and placed his hands loosely clasped between his legs, and the smell of the cakes made Peter's eyes water, as he thought of his aunt and how much he missed her. They – they meant well, but the Avengers were so focussed on _fixing_ a problem, as if _everything_ could be solved, but he -! He wasn't something that could be fixed! He was broken, maybe irreversibly so, and all he wanted was rest and sleep and to _forget_ this whole night.

"Is it true?" Natasha's voice asked.

He looked up to see Natasha come around to sit next to Bruce, whilst Steve took up an armchair between both sofas. They looked almost like a couple from a fashion magazine, with both dressed impeccably smart and so beautiful, but Peter knew that the two friends were probably on a mission somewhere or simply hanging out. He envied them. He envied their abilities to be someone else for a night, just as he envied them for their freedom and the way they could smile despite anything, and he – he knew he was weak in comparison . . .

The tears began to race. There was so much to live up to; Bruce was patient and strong, Natasha was brave and determined, and Steve was intelligent and loyal. They all held qualities that he needed to show, which wasn't to mention Tony or Pepper, who created and ran one of the strongest companies on the planet. He was just a kid, but maybe he would always be a kid. The memories of all he lost flooded him, until he realised that he might never be able to live up to these amazing people, but – more than that – he might never live up to what May and Ben expected of him. He failed them. He failed them all.

"Whoa, hang in there, Peter!" Steve said softly. "It'll be okay!"

Steve slid himself over onto the sofa, which dipped with his weight. It was then he felt himself pulled into Steve's hold, where the other man – almost like a surrogate father to him – held him tightly against him, but it wasn't the comfort he intended. Steve was sheer muscle, more so than any Avenger except Thor, and it was just a reminder of everything _lost_ , because May and Gwen _weren't_ hard muscle . . . the two women that held him most and comforted him the most -? They – they weren't Steve. They were _gone_.

"You need to talk to us," said Natasha.

"W-why does everyone leave me?" Peter gasped. "What's wrong with me?"

"There isn't anything wrong with you. No more than the rest of us anyway." Natasha gave a small smile, which made Peter laugh through the tears. "The people that left you didn't do it out of choice. They left because they were killed. That wasn't their decision."

"N-no! No, it wasn't! It wasn't their decision, but it was _my_ fault! I – I – I'm the – I'm the common denominator here, Nat! My parents died, but it was _my_ blood that they died for! My uncle died, because I was too selfish to stop a criminal! Gwen and Harry -? How can you say they weren't my fault? _How can you say that_? M-my aunt May -! She – she would still be here, if – if she didn't – if she didn't die from grief . . . I caused that grief! I did!"

"Your aunt died of a heart-attack, Peter," answered Natasha quietly. "I know you would have sold your soul to the devil to get her back, but there was nothing you could have done. Trust me, I've seen real evil. I've seen real monsters at work. I have more blood on my hands than I would like to admit. Your hands are clean. You're a good man. You're a hero."

"Everyone I love _dies_! If – if I stay here -! You'll all . . ."

"That's not how life works," said Steve kindly.

Peter scoffed and tried to pull away, as he felt a dizzying sense of unreality. There was a part of him that wondered what his uncle would have said, just as he remembered how it felt to be held by Gwen, and suddenly the situation felt _wrong_. He wanted to scream. It built in his throat until it clung and cloyed and caught itself on the brink of release, so that he fisted his hands into Steve's dress-shirt and let out an inhuman cry, until he realised that he couldn't hold his pain in any longer. He tried to run and hide, but Steve held him tight.

It made him feel trapped. There was no reason for them to see him like that! They – they suffered enough, so that a brief glance to Natasha and Bruce showed a barely concealed worry and grief, whilst he felt an incredible sense of guilt and shame. He pulled and fought against Steve, but the older man just held him tightly, so that he was squeezed against the muscular chest and unable to get away, and the more he fought the more Steve held onto him! It was infuriating! It was ridiculous! It was – it was -! It was more than he deserved . . . he didn't deserve such kindness after everything, after -! Peter collapsed against Steve and began to weep, whilst his surrogate father stroked his messy brown hair.

"I'm sorry," sobbed Peter. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!"

"I'll go call Tony," said Bruce quietly. "See where he's got to."

Bruce gently slid himself from the sofa, although Peter couldn't see him from where his head buried itself against Steve's chest, but – through his sobs – he heard Bruce move and the rustle of material. It was then that he felt a hand on his shoulder, one slightly clammy and shaking almost imperceptibly, and he realised that Bruce was trying to comfort him, but then the hand was gone and the only sound was footsteps followed by a door closing softly behind Bruce. The conversation would likely take place behind closed doors.

"Peter," whispered Steve. "Peter, you need to _breathe_."

"I'm sorry. It's my fault. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry! Please, I'm sorry. I –"

"Hey, _breathe_. You won't be any good to anyone unconscious or sick. Just breathe deeply; _that's it, just keeping going_ . . . in and out, in and out . . . try to relax your muscles. I've seen this happen to many men during the war. It seems like an anxiety attack, just breathe."

It took a good few minutes, but eventually he was able to breathe properly. There was still a raspy sound with each breath, as well as the occasional shudder and the blurred vision, but he was able to draw in enough air to keep some of the panic at bay. He pulled back slowly, but this time Steve let him. Natasha leaned forward where she sat, with her eyes focussed and hard behind the loose red locks, and Steve still kept his hands on either side of Peter, as if afraid the teenager might run away in fear. They were waiting to judge his reaction.

"Suicide isn't the answer, Peter," said Steve quietly. "I met men that did just that. They never realised just what they were missing out on, but Sam will tell you firsthand. It's a permanent solution to a temporary problem, something you don't realise in the haze of it all . . ."

"It's the only solution," replied Peter brokenly. "There – there were other things, too, things that I can't talk about . . . things only my aunt and uncle knew. I – I still – I still get nightmares about them . . . I hate how I let them happen, just like I hate how it felt . . . I can still – I can still feel his _hands_ on me, you know? It was only the one time, but I let myself get into that situation! I keep thinking about how everything bad that happens is my fault!"

"You're talking about abuse?" Steve gave a shuddered sigh. "I'm sorry you had to go through something like that. Just know this: _it's not your fault_. The only things ever your fault are the things you _knowingly_ cause, but you never caused that or asked for it, I doubt you even knew what it was that was happening. You can't prevent the madness of men, Peter. There are people out there that will use and hurt those that they think are weaker than them, but those that succumb to them aren't at fault . . . they aren't even victims. They're _survivors_."

"Steve is right," said Natasha. "You survived the worst: you survived the abuse and you survived the grief. You'll survive this, too. It's hard to see the light at the end of tunnel, at least when the tunnel collapses around you. If you won't believe in yourself, believe in us: we would rather die than let anything hurt you, Peter."

"Including yourself," Steve added with a wink.

Peter let out a nervous laugh, whilst Steve dropped a hand on his shoulder. He rubbed at his eyes to try and rid himself of the tears, but they wouldn't stop and he just felt frustrated from trying, but – as he tried to calm himself – Steve started to discuss a friend he knew that was once suicidal, whilst Natasha spoke of those that once took their lives. There weren't the guilt-trips he expected, there weren't the interrogations he feared, but simply two people like family to him letting him know that he wasn't alone. It . . . helped.

It was then that Steve let out a sentiment truly worthy of Captain America; the blond man told him that – any time he felt alone – to remember that there was always at least one other person out there that felt like he did, perhaps they even looked up to see the moon the same as he saw, so that they shared something in that moment. He felt somewhat less alone, although there was still a heavy weight in his chest, which seemed to compress everything he felt and prevent him from truly letting go of his pain. The door that Bruce left through opened again, which revealed a somewhat dishevelled looking Bruce, and the way he looked frustrated at his phone – with his other hand dug into his hair – made it clear it was bad news.

"Tony and Pepper are stuck in traffic," said Bruce.

He glanced briefly about the room, before his eyes settled on the uneaten wheat-cakes on the side-table, but he smiled despite the brief pang of guilt that Peter felt about the fact he let Bruce's attempt at cheering him up go to waste. The older man came around to sit on the armchair where Steve was once sitting, which was something Peter noted to ask him about later. _Bruce was avoiding Natasha_. Peter was surprised that there could be anything between them, but they would have been a good couple, only something happened between them on their last mission and all the trust Bruce once had for her . . . it seemed to be gone.

"They'll be here as soon as they can," he added.

Peter gave a lazy nod. He would easily admit that Tony was a strong role-model for him, so that most of his days were spent in the laboratory with his other surrogate father and Bruce, and most people would have had second thoughts about adopting a seventeen-year-old, but not Tony. He understood the pain of trauma, having severe post-traumatic stress, and he understood the pressures of trying to be someone that he felt he wasn't, and Peter felt awful that he made Tony worry. Tony . . . the man that helped him make the 'Iron Spider' suit. Tony . . . the man that took him in when no one else would . . .

"Peter," said Bruce, "I know you look to Tony and Steve as your father figures, but I'm always here for you . . . I might not be the best person to deal with things like this, but – ah – I don't know whether you know this, but I _know_ how you feel . . . honestly."

"You mean you -? You tried to -?" Peter shook his head. " _Why_?"

There was a sad smile from Bruce, who reached out to the arm of the chair to fiddle with a frayed piece of thread, whilst he looked down at the floor with hunched shoulders. It was typical of Bruce to avoid eye contact, especially when he felt threatened or vulnerable, but a strong part of Peter wanted to apologise for the question, because it seemed such a sensitive subject . . . then again it _was_ a sensitive subject. If anyone asked Peter outright 'why', he wouldn't have been able to tell them outright either. He blushed in embarrassment.

"Sorry . . . I – I shouldn't have asked . . ."

"No, it's okay," said Bruce warmly. "I wouldn't have mentioned it, if I didn't want you to know. I was in a bad place; I lost everyone I loved, while I feared the other part of me, and things grew to be too much. I swallowed a bullet, but the other guy spat it out."

"I – I didn't think you . . ." Peter shrugged nervously. "You have such good self-control. I guess – with how I felt – I thought . . . I – er – kind of expected someone who felt like me to be . . . well . . . a mess like me. I was standing on the ledge to a building across town, thinking that it'd be a sure thing, but really I wasn't thinking anything . . ."

"Neither was I. There wasn't any thinking, only _feeling_."

"And it felt empty and dark, with no way out."

"Like all happiness had been sucked away."

Peter gave a nervous smile, where he looked to Bruce and saw Bruce wore the same one. It was clear that the older man _knew_ how it felt, where the brain felt almost shut down and the heart overwhelmed, and it was obvious he knew how it felt to feel as like he was wading in water with every step. The light in the room began to hurt Peter's eyes. He felt tired, exhausted even, but Natasha and Steve seemed to not understand why he smiled, just as they didn't understand why Bruce smiled back. Everything felt so unreal; every movement felt as if he were fighting some unseen force, and it was all such a _struggle_ . . .

"Can I – can I . . . sleep for a while?"

It felt rather rude to leave present company to sleep, but every muscle in his body ached and his mind felt clogged to the point of breaking. He needed to _process_ everything, which meant time alone to think and feel and come to terms with it all, but with all eyes on him and the unending desire to find a solution -? Luckily, Bruce seemed to understand perfectly. He thought that he might take the older man up on his old offer to learn meditation, because maybe – just maybe – it would help. Bruce gave a nervous smile and a clear nod of his head.

"Sure, you deserve a rest," said Bruce.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," answered Steve. "I wouldn't feel comfortable with Peter being left alone in his room, especially with the Spider-Man technology within reach. I think one of us should stay with him, at least for tonight. Tony wouldn't like it, either."

"Suicide watch? Seriously? Do you think that's the best plan?"

"It's better than removing his door," said Natasha.

Bruce gave her an indecipherable look. The hint of annoyance on his face was hard to ignore, but he merely smiled a dangerous smile and shook his head, before he slapped his knees and stood with a slight slouch. He sent Peter an almost sympathetic look, which Peter appreciated a great deal . . . there was something infuriating about being _chaperoned_ , like he was some child undeserving of privacy, and – as much as he understood why they would want to watch him – he _loathed_ the feeling of being trapped. He hated that he couldn't even grieve in peace.

"Fine," said Bruce. "I'll go find an air-bed. I don't mind sleeping there."

He strode out of the room with his head down, unable to look too closely at Steve or Natasha, perhaps out of fear of what he may see. The world saw Bruce as a man forever on the edge, but for all the wrong reasons, and a part of Peter could begin to relate to that feeling, because he _knew_ how it felt to be close to breaking and to have all eyes on him, and that constant scrutiny only made the fear of falling all the worse. It was easy to climb back up without the pressure of performing, harder when there was the fear of embarrassing himself further.

Peter stood up shakily to his feet. Natasha watched him carefully, although her head never moved and her body remained in perfect position, but Steve stood up with him and reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. It was hard to bear the touch, because he just wanted so much to be _alone_. He pulled away from Steve with a muttered apology, before he walked as fast as he could without running, and headed straight for his bedroom, where Bruce was already finishing setting up the air-bed beside his bed. The older man made to ask whether he was okay, but he ignored him to throw himself into his bed. He pulled the sheets to his chin.

There was an awkward sigh from Bruce, although he seemed to sense that Peter didn't wish to speak, especially by the way he hid his face, but Peter struggled to keep his sobs quiet and could feel the way his body shook with each cry. The covers felt cool against his skin, but they provided a good barrier between himself and the world. There was the sound of a click, before the lights turned off, and suddenly a hand came down to squeeze his shoulder just slightly, enough to almost be reassuring. Peter clenched his eyes shut to hide.

"Goodnight, Peter," said Bruce.

The sound of Bruce settling down beside him was almost a comfort, but it brought back memories of sleepovers with Harry and nights stolen with Gwen. Peter felt the tears fall hot and fast, as he remembered all he lost, and he could hear Bruce next to him . . . listening . . . likely afraid to say anything, because there was nothing _to_ say. There was no way to make the depression fade with just a few words, and there was no way Bruce would trivialise his pain by pretending otherwise. Peter drew in a shaking breath and whispered:

"Goodnight . . ."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Peter woke with a start.

There was a dizzying sense of unreality. The sheets tangled around his legs didn't feel cool as they should, but then he wasn't dressed as he should either. He still wore the sweat-drenched hooded top and old bottoms, whilst his sock-covered feet still felt confined by the trainers on them, and – most of all – it was still dark outside, far too early to be awake on a Saturday. It hurt his back to sit up, simply as he seemed to have fallen asleep in an awkward position. The crick in his neck was nearly as bad as the severe pins-and-needles in his shoulder.

A quick glance to his bedside clock proved it to be six-thirty, whilst there was the distinct sound of running water from the _en suite_. That was odd . . . Peter looked with eyes still out of focus to see a beam of light from underneath the bathroom door, but he knew in his mind that Gwen wouldn't be allowed to stop over this late and Harry always showered in the evenings, and it was only then that he realised it _couldn't_ be them. They were dead. Peter gave a hollow laugh and collapsed back upon the mattress, as he felt the grief hit him afresh and felt a strong blow to his chest. He – he was crying again. It felt foolish, but he was _crying_.

' _I see you are awake, Mr Parker_ ,' said a disembodied voice.

Peter gave a soft sigh, as he sat back up. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, before he fixed his clothing and caught sight of the messy airbed on the floor beside him, and suddenly the night before flooded back to him. The sight of Bruce's makeshift bed made him feel better just slightly, simply because he felt less alone and he was grateful for the company. There was no doubt in his mind that his mentor and friend was taking a morning shower, which also meant that Bruce was respectful and trusting enough not to wake him. He appreciated that.

"Er, yeah," muttered Peter. "I'm still tired, though, so . . ."

' _That is nothing to worry about, Sir,_ ' said J.A.R.V.I.S. politely. ' _I do believe that excessive tiredness is a symptom of clinical depression, of which you appear to be exhibiting many signs. A qualified doctor has been contacted; your appointment is set for three p.m.'_

"Great, just great. It's nice to know it was arranged without me."

' _I detect a note of sarcasm, Sir_.'

There was a certain edge in the tone of the A.I. that made him suspicious, enough that the machine almost sounded annoyed, which perhaps meant that Tony programmed it to sound such or that J.A.R.V.I.S. was emulating Tony's reactions during the night. Peter wasn't in the mood to talk to a professional, whilst the idea of drugs felt . . . _wrong_. He felt numb enough already without some medicine numbing him further, plus what he felt was _natural_ , albeit extremely debilitating. Drugs just weren't natural. The idea of some sort of chemical changing his brain -? It was terrifying, enough that he couldn't consider it.

' _Your parents are waiting for you in the breakfast room_.'

"Isn't it a bit early for Tony?" Peter stood up and stretched. "I – I can get that Pepper is awake, but isn't -? I – I – I mean it's just -! Tony never gets up at this time. He – he hasn't been waiting up long, has he? I – I didn't think anyone would – would –"

' _It is quite all right. Mr Stark has not slept, so there was no need for him to awaken_.'

"T-that makes it s-so much worse! Okay, fine, tell them I'll be twenty minutes."

' _Yes, Sir. After all, twenty minutes is not arbitrary in the least_.'

"J-just tell them! Twenty minutes!"

Peter stormed across to the mirror on the wall opposite his bed, where he tried his best to make his hair look somewhat presentable, but – with the bathroom taken – it was an almost impossible task. He instead focussed on straightening his clothing, where he suddenly caught feel of something odd in his pocket, and on removal he could see a piece of paper with a scrawled number in what looked like crayon. He gave a sad smile at the memory of last night, as he looked around distractedly for his phone. It – it felt weird to even _think_ about it, but . . .

He found his phone on his desk. Peter was under no illusion that it wouldn't be checked later on, possibly for any text communications or websites that would give a potential cause or reason, but his closest friends and family were gone. There was no one left that he felt _able_ to confide in, at least about feelings so personal, and so there was nothing incriminating for them to find, because everything 'secret' he kept in his head and heart alone. It was perhaps an insult to those like Ava or Danny, because they _were_ his friends, but he just -! Peter shook his head, before he programmed Deadpool's number under 'Luke: Home'.

It was far better to be safe than sorry, especially when the chances were that no one would want him talking to Deadpool, but then he wasn't even sure he _did_ want to talk to Deadpool, because -! Peter drew in a staggered breath. Jumping from that ledge was the smartest decision he made in a long time, but Deadpool _stopped_ him and prolonged this misery, which was something almost impossible to forgive, and yet -! No one else even _noticed_ his pain. No one else was able to _stop_ him. Why did Deadpool even care? Why did it even matter?

"Screw it," he muttered. "What do I have to lose?"

Peter turned his head to make sure that Bruce was still showering. The noise of water was still loud, whilst the bedroom door was closed, and he would have twenty minutes before anyone burst inside panicking about what happened to him. He rang the number and waited nervously, but he felt a stab of shame at how he might be disturbing Deadpool for little to no reason. The older man only saved Peter out of obligation . . . he only left his number to be polite . . . there was no way that he would want to speak to Peter, especially if he were busy or resting or any number of things. It was then the ringing stopped and a voice said:

' _Yo! What up_?'

"A-ah, D-Deadpool? It – it's me –"

' _You've reached the number of Ivana Lotta Cox! If you're looking for Deadpool, you way have the wrong number! Contact S.H.I.E.L.D. and quote 'Deadpool' for a discount on any wreckage! Oh, and if you're Priscilla -? Kiss my ass_!'

There was the sound of a beep, which indicated the start of the answer-machine. It was enough to make Peter let out a long sigh. He felt a stab of abandonment; it felt ridiculous to feel, because abandonment required expectation and Deadpool certainly never built up any expectations of _being_ there. Still, he built up an idea in his head . . . a dream really . . . that someone might be there for him, that they might care . . . someone that couldn't die and _couldn't_ leave him like that . . . it was stupid to hope for such a thing. Peter smiled sadly and thought about hanging up, but there would still be the missed call as proof of his attempt.

"S-sorry," he whispered. "It's – it's me . . . Peter Parker. I just –"

' _Hey, Petey! Still alive then_?'

"You – you're there?"

Peter heard a loud laugh on the other end. It made him wince and spin around, as if someone else may be able to hear it, but no one else held his sharp senses and the phone wasn't exactly on speaker. There was a rustle on the other end, followed by a groan of pain and then a shout of a curse word, and then a soft thud and a low sigh, so that Peter was half-curious and half-terrified about what he interrupted. Eventually Deadpool spoke again:

' _Where else would I be_?'

"W-well, I heard the answer-phone, so I –"

' _Bah, like I know how to set up my answer-message_!' There was another rustle and then what sounded like a gunshot. ' _I thought you were someone else . . . anyone else, actually! You know that, if you buy a phone with buttons, you can press the button to make that 'beep' noise? You should so try it! It's a great way to pretend not to be there, but_ not _have to listen to the voicemail and stuff! Say, I thought I left Brucey the number, not you_!'

"Y-you did, but I – I took the number . . . I – I just – I just thought that it'd be good to have a way to keep in touch, you know? Yesterday was the _worst_ day of my life. It would have been the last, but . . . well . . . you know. You seemed to understand how I felt, so . . ."

' _Aw, you wanted a friend to hang out with? That's cool! Well, it's not_ that _cool, but only because it's stupid o'clock and I think I was asleep. The_ Golden Girls _marathon is over, plus my cereal is all slush, and apparently I was sitting in my boxers. Don't try to pull your pants up with one hand and a cell in the other! I think I cleaved my ball-sack in two_!'

"I'll – er – try to bear that in mind. Say, listen, I – well –"

"Peter?" Bruce called. "Are you on the phone?"

Peter looked across the room to the _en suite_ door. Bruce stood there in a loose pair of violet trousers, as he dabbed his bare neck with an old towel, and – in that moment – he seemed somewhat older than his years. There was a slight pouch of weight to his belly, whilst his chest hair seemed greyer than anything else, and yet he was still undeniably handsome, albeit in an unconventional way. Still, he looked visibly worried and stared at the phone like some alien device, whilst steam billowed out from behind him into the bedroom.

"Just to Luke," lied Peter.

"Well, hurry on ahead to the kitchen," said Bruce kindly. "I ran into Tony this morning; he wants to see you the moment you're awake, and – well – you look awake to me. J.A.R.V.I.S. has probably told him you're up . . . don't make him worry, okay?"

"Er, right." Peter said into his phone: "Call me back later, _Luke_?"

' _Sure! If you tell me what you're wearing_!'

"Later, Luke," he said with a blush.

It was strange, but . . . he felt a little better. True, Deadpool's distraction provided only a makeshift solution and didn't tackle the root cause, but it was nice to simply _forget_ his problems for a few moments with inane natter. He never appreciated it during his time as Spider-Man, but then that was different. Spider-Man needed to be professional and needed to be a hero, whilst Deadpool seemed to treat it as a game and got in the way, but Peter didn't know _what_ he needed . . . he only knew he wanted to forget the pain.

The expression Bruce wore was hard to decipher, even as Peter dropped his phone onto the desk and headed out into the hallway, and he wondered whether the older man suspected that he was talking to someone that he probably shouldn't. It didn't seem to matter, however, because – no sooner had he stepped into the hallway – did he hear Tony scream out his name at an almost impossible volume, so that he was forced to wince and slink into the living-room sheepishly, almost afraid of what he might come across. He saw Pepper standing at the breakfast bar, but Tony suddenly appeared immediately before him. Peter and Tony both let out sounds of surprise, whilst Peter clutched his chest and felt a spark of adrenaline.

Tony must have been coming to get him, but ran into him on the corner. The older man looked as taken aback as he felt, as well as equally as startled, but he also looked far more tired than Peter could ever remember seeing him. There were dark bags under his eyes, whilst his old t-shirt seemed to hang off him, and he was rather pale in the face, almost as if he were drinking again, even though Peter knew – well, _hoped_ – that wasn't the case. Tony eventually caught his breath and walked back across the room to Pepper, as he waved at his adopted son to follow him. Pepper at once rushed to her son's side.

"Peter, are you okay?"

Pepper began to put her hands against him, as if she could feel his depression in the form of a fever or clamminess, and then began to usher him onto a stool next to Tony, where he felt suddenly somewhat like a child caught between two parents. There was a pile of wheat-cakes in front of him, although without the strawberries his aunt used to sometimes put onto the side, and he felt a broken smile appear at the memory of his aunt. Pepper looked so beautiful and professional in her suit, but her make-up was slightly smeared to show her sadness.

"I – I'm fine," said Peter.

"No, you're not fine," she said firmly. "You tried to kill yourself, Peter!"

"I _didn't_ , though! I'm still here, aren't I? It's – it's not like I succeeded or anything!"

The look that Pepper wore – as she slid onto the stool to his right – was one heartbreaking to see, let alone to even think about what she may feel, and he turned his head away to look at the food before him. He didn't feel hungry. It was strange, because he knew that he _should_ feel hungry and his stomach felt empty, but there was sense of fullness and disinterest that he couldn't shake, so much so that he felt almost sick looking at the wheat-cakes in front of him. The kitchen area didn't feel right, either; it was so modernistic and metallic, nothing like the warm or homey feeling that his kitchen exuded at May's . . .

"Please," begged Pepper, "you need to tell us if something is wrong. If the tower isn't comfortable for you, we can make some changes. If Tony and I aren't doing enough to make you feel welcome, we'll do whatever we can so you _know_ you're a part of our family."

"It's – it's nothing! It's nothing you're doing!" Peter dropped his head into his hands. "Don't – _please, don't_ – make me feel guilty about this, b-because I _swear_ that this isn't about you! Not really! I don't – I don't want to talk about it, but things are just . . . rough. I – I know I could turn to you and Tony about things, but – but – but it feels _weird_! I couldn't even talk to my aunt about a lot of these kinds of things, so how could I . . .?"

"Okay, let's go through this properly," snapped Tony. "Firstly, you're not dishonouring your aunt by trusting in someone else. Got that? I mean, what, she'd want you to be miserable and never talk to anyone else ever again? I don't know about you, but she always seemed to me to be a better person than that. She never struck me as the petty sort."

" _She wasn't_! That doesn't mean it doesn't feel _weird_ with her gone! Every time I confide in someone else -! I keep thinking how much I _never_ told her, how much I never _will_ tell her, and I just want _one last moment_ to say goodbye! I want to tell her everything!"

"Yeah, well, you can't," said Tony. "She's gone."

"Yeah, well, _I know_."

Peter dragged his hands over his face. They fell loudly upon his lap, where he gave a loud sigh and felt Pepper place her hand upon his shoulder, where she squeezed firmly and gave a small smile of reassurance. It – it wasn't _right_. Every day that he put his family and friends at a distance didn't feel _right_ , because they didn't deserve to be alienated and he _needed_ them to know how much he appreciated them, but _every darned time_ he spent laughing or smiling or joking with them -? It was like he was forgetting Ben, May, Gwen, Harry, his parents -!

"There isn't a day that goes by where . . ."

"Look, Cap has this idea," said Tony. "It seems really cheesy to me, but what do I know? I figured that you, Pepper and me could go to the park one day. Your aunt used to do yoga in the park, right? We've all lost people. We could light some candles, eat some food, and share stories . . . I don't know . . . whatever people do in memorials. Bruce and Pepper want to make a photo collage with you of everyone you've lost, but I figured you and me could do something less 'chick-flick'. I have lots of tech you can help me work on."

"It's – it's not just the grief, Tony." Peter gave a sad smile. "I think that's just the final straw, you know? There's . . . well . . . school isn't easy; Flash has a _lot_ to say at the best of times, whilst work always seems so _easy_ , and I'm either bored or bullied. I still have these memories, too, kind of . . . _bad_ memories. Steve probably already told you, but Skip _did_ things that I can't even talk about. I can't _cope_ anymore, Tony! I just _can't_!"

"It's okay, Peter," whispered Pepper. "That's what's so great about having a family; you don't _need_ to be strong all the time, because it's okay to turn to us for support. If you can't cope with the weight of the world, we're here to hold you up. You _will_ get through this. We'll take it one day at a time, okay? Bruce is more than happy to stay with you, at least until you feel that you can cope enough to be alone, and we have a wonderful doctor that can talk to you about all your problems. It's entirely confidential, so we won't be told a thing."

It was something of a relief to be told that he wasn't alone. The words didn't stop the feelings, especially when a part of him felt that they were hollow, as if they were said solely to spare his feelings, but they did take an edge off that made him feel somewhat better. Tony gave a sigh next to him, as he reached out for a tumbler just opposite him, which was – thankfully – filled only with juice, and he fiddled with it and held it almost in memory of the alcohol he could once fall back upon. He turned and looked at Peter with a somewhat stern gaze, although the love was still there and there was a deep pain to his eyes.

"You said it wasn't 'really' about us," Tony said.

Peter gave a visible wince. The kitchen suddenly felt far colder than it ought, which felt wrong when contrasted to how hot and humid his aunt's kitchen felt, and he wanted to return to his room and sleep away the rest of the day. There was nothing worse than hurting the people that took him in and helped look after him, but here he was making them think _they_ were the cause, when really there wasn't a set cause . . . it was a _collection_ of causes. He kept his head low and tried not to make eye contact out of a sense of shame.

"It – it isn't," replied Peter. "I – I never meant to make you think . . ."

"Hey, not trying to make you feel bad here, kiddo!" Tony raised his hands in mock surrender. "Just trying to understand, that's all. Look, I'm not the paternal sort, but I'm _trying_ to be, so if there's anything I can do to . . . you know . . . _help_ -?"

"T-there isn't, I don't think . . . I appreciate so much you guys taking me in, I really do! I feel awful . . . _disgusting_ . . . that I could make you even think it's something you did, because y-you don't deserve that kind of guilt. I – I hate that I've done this to you, I do! I keep thinking that if I just jumped before Deadpool arrived, you guys wouldn't feel this way . . ."

Tony let out a sound almost like a sigh, whilst Pepper let her hand reach out for Peter's, and – as she held onto him – he noted how her skin felt warm, so much warmer than his and so much more human in touch. It was a small comfort, even as he felt the tears rise behind his eyes, enough that he had to blink rapidly to fight them away, and he tried to smile despite the fact he felt unworthy of her kindness. He – he was the one to cause _them_ pain, as such it should have been _him_ comforting them, not the other way around!

"No, we would have felt worse," said Tony.

"Peter," added Pepper, "you know how grief feels . . . we would have felt that exact same pain. Every time we saw your empty room, it would have reminded us about the son we lost, and that would be all the worse when we know how much potential you have. You could be anything that you want to be. To throw all that away, when we could have helped you through this -? The waste of life is worse than the loss of life, Peter."

"Just think of it this way, kid: every day you get up is a battle won! You just need to win the war, but that's what meds and therapy are for, am I right? It'll take time . . . took me longer than I'd like to kick the booze . . . still, you got what most kids don't: me!" Tony gave a wink and smiled. "You have no reason to be depressed with me around!"

"What Tony is _trying_ to say is that we'll get through this. It isn't your battle alone, not anymore, and we'll be with you every step of the way. What about keeping a diary, Peter? It might be cathartic to write out your feelings each day? It could help."

"Yeah, like _that_ would help. You'll have him making daisy-chains next."

"Tony, we talked about this. Unconditional support?"

Tony gave a slight snort, before he rolled his eyes and pushed back his tumbler. There was a brief moment where he muttered something under his breath, but he then rested his head upon his hand and gave Peter a softer expression, which made it hard to tell whether he was mocking Pepper's suggestion or genuinely trying to express 'unconditional support'. Luckily, Peter knew his adoptive father well enough to know he was truly trying, which made him smile warmly in turn and lower his head again in mild embarrassment.

He wanted to say something to make everything better, but he knew that their worry wouldn't disappear overnight, and – the truth of the matter was – he lost their trust . . . trust was easily broken, but hard earned. It would take time to prove that he wasn't a danger to himself, but the fact was that he didn't _want_ time, because he just wanted it to all be _over_ , and that was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? He was a danger to himself. They had ever right to be worried. It was enough to make Peter throw back his head and stare up at the white ceiling, where the lights and fans sat, and he tried to find the bright side to his situation.

Peter looked between Pepper and Tony, before he gave a nervous smile. It felt good to have them on either side of him, enough that he felt a weight from his shoulders, and – as he tried to ignore the pain he felt – he reached up to rub at his shoulders, desperate to work away the knots and aches that lurked there. He wondered whether they could really work through his issues, especially when the world still felt as if it were imploding around him, but he knew that they were his best chance at improvement. They would help him.

"Thanks, guys," said Peter quietly.

It was then that Bruce appeared in the doorway. He looked a lot less dishevelled that before, although he still seemed uncomfortable and hunched over slightly, enough that his shirt bulged and creased in an unattractive manner. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up enough to reveal the skin of his arms, whilst he held them crossed across his chest in an awkward manner. Tony eventually saw him and waved wildly in the air to get his attention; there was a small knitting of Bruce's eyebrows, before he rolled his eyes and gave a sad smile.

"Yo, Bruce!" Tony called. "Want to help me and Peter with the 'Iron-Spider' suit?"

"I thought we worked out all the kinks months ago?" Bruce asked.

"Yeah, but it's _been_ months since Spider-Man last did anything."

"Want to make sure the suit's not rusty?"

"Something like that."

Bruce shook his head in exasperation. The attempt at 'work' by Tony was a blatant effort for the two of them to spend time with Peter, where they could approach his issues in a 'casual' manner and distract themselves with a project, and it was almost sweet in an odd way. Tony was also a man that would rather 'do' than 'talk', save for the times when he was able to talk about himself, in which case getting him to shut up was the real issue, and Peter _plenty_ of times saw Bruce asleep on the armchair as Tony 'unloaded' onto him. The phrase 'I'm not that kind of doctor' became so commonplace that Peter once _dreamt_ it being said.

"Sure, just let me eat first," said Bruce.

The older man strolled lazily over to the kitchen, where Tony jumped up at once and raced across to his friend, before he animatedly began to talk with wild gestures and expressions, each one more spectacular than the last. Bruce simply nodded along with the occasional yawn, as he poured himself some cereal and ignored the splashed milk across the counter. It was only when he sat down – with a crick of the neck and blurred vision – that Tony jumped into a stool beside him to continue talking about their 'project'. Pepper stood up with a smile.

"Okay," said Pepper, "just _don't_ be late for your appointment."

"He won't," answered Tony. "I've an eye on the time."

They continued to talk, as Pepper brushed down her clothes for creases. It was then she leaned over to place a kiss on Peter's head, before she shot a warning look to Tony and one of pity towards Bruce, but neither man seemed to notice. Bruce was eating his breakfast in something of a daze, either ignoring his surroundings or simply unaware of them, whilst Tony wouldn't stop talking about the 'Iron-Spider' and 'cathartic exercise' and 'working out stuff constructively', all whilst pointing at Peter. It was oddly nice, like a real family . . .

Peter felt less alone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Peter looked at his web-shooters . . .

They felt oppressive. He knew that – logically – Tony's adjustments didn't affect the structure or size, but it was so long since Spider-Man last stepped out into the city -! He wasn't used to their weight and touch. They felt bulky and obstructive, enough that he couldn't stop fidgeting with them, and they only reminded him of the responsibilities that dragged him down into his depression. It was then that he remembered how long Spider-Man was out of action . . . _five months_! How many people were hurt because he -?

No, he – he couldn't _think_ about that! If he started to blame himself for every death and assault, simply because he needed time to mourn Gwen, then it would drive him right back to the brink. Still, the way his heart raced was almost painful. It gave him something of a sense of vertigo to look down from the ledge, where flashbacks of his suicide attempt flashed back to him, and he wondered when those feelings of shame and curiosity would disappear. He couldn't help but wonder 'what if' even now, as he thought about how appealing a dream it was to picture the end. No more pain, no more suffering . . . it was selfish, though, wasn't it? He _needed_ to remember that his peace would come at the grief of his family.

"Okay, I can do this," he whispered.

It was so humid behind the mask, especially when his nervousness made him sweat almost obscenely. The material clung horribly underneath his armpits, whilst the backs of his knees and the join of his legs felt clammy, and he found himself pulling awkwardly at the costume to try and create some space, all in a desperate attempt to get some _air_. He felt dizzy looking out at the city. The cityscape appeared to move and blur around him, almost like a bad fainting spell, and it forced him to take a step back to keep himself safe.

They _trusted_ him. Well, to an extent . . . the left shooter held a chip that would alert J.A.R.V.I.S. should Peter leave the programmed limits, whilst the right shooter monitored his pulse rate and blood pressure, so that an alarm would be sent should he be in a position where he was in true danger. The tracking chip in both was also unfortunate, as well as the motion-sensing – an idea of Bruce's – that would alert them should Peter stop moving for more than a specific designated period. It was all brilliantly designed to give him the _illusion_ of freedom, but the fact was that his right to free movement was stifled. The only thing that gave him hope was that they trusted him. They trusted him to make the right _choice_.

The street was right below him. It would only take _one step_ to end it all, and – by the time he hit the pavement – the alarms and tracking and all those chips -! They wouldn't be able to do anything . . . they wouldn't get there in time . . . it would be as easy as stepping off the ledge like he planned, maybe stepping into traffic on his way to school, maybe -! The temptation was strong, but he knew he needed to fight it. Bruce said that – in time – the temptation would fade away entirely, but time was something he felt he didn't have, because patience was thin and the pain was great. The future seemed alien to him.

' _Yo, over here_!'

Peter turned to see a familiar face, one that made him smile beneath his mask. The sight of Deadpool was an all too familiar one to Spider-Man, but – as far as the other man was concerned – it was _months_ since they last saw each other, nearly half a year in fact, and he held no idea in the least that Peter was in fact his idol. The last fortnight seemed to contain a strange daily routine, where the two men would spend most nights talking at great length on the phone, so that they were almost friends, but didn't friends trust one another?

He wasn't sure whether he could tell Deadpool the truth. The other man was dangerous, enough that he could possibly use the knowledge of the alter ego against Peter, which was a real possibility when Deadpool was as chaotically neutral as they came. A part of him trusted Deadpool, though, although he felt almost foolish for doing so, and he realised that his family probably felt the same way about him . . . Tony, Pepper, Steve, Bruce, and Natasha . . . they all _wanted_ to trust him, but with that trust came a risk. Peter shook his head sadly and turned to face Deadpool, as he tried to ignore the horrendous cold weather that seeped through his costume and appeared to turn the sweat to ice.

"Where you been, baby boy?" Deadpool chirped.

"Just _hanging out_ ," replied Peter.

The pun went as intended, as Deadpool let out a loud laugh. It was a sound that Peter came to depend upon lately, almost as much as his family's support and the many therapy sessions, and he used his webbing to aim at a far wall and swung over. He landed by Deadpool on a slightly lower roof, where the older man seemed visibly excited. The material of Deadpool's suit bulged with how tense his muscles were, which were enough to put even Steve to shame, and he bounced on the heels of his feet with childlike movements.

"I am _so_ glad to see you, Spidey!"

"I never thought I'd say this, but . . . it's good to see you, too."

"Really? Anyone would think you were avoiding me!" Deadpool waved his hands wildly in the air. "I mean -! Come on -! It's been what -? _Like, forever!_ Six and a half months is _not_ forever. Maybe to you! Petey told me you'd quit! I knew the kid was crazy!"

"Crazy? That's funny from the man _actually_ committed."

"Not 'crazy' crazy! Like 'cray-cray' crazy!"

Peter reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. It was a sudden reminder of how frustrating Deadpool could be, because Spider-Man should have been patrolling the city, but instead he was now caught up in what sounded like a semantic lesson for the surreal. Deadpool, meanwhile, began to peel off his boot and poured out a small pile of sand, whilst he hopped around and flakes of skin fell from the blisters and dried scabs. Peter tried not to grimace behind his mask, just in case Deadpool saw, because it wasn't fair to make a self-conscious man further worried about his skin deformation, not least when it wasn't his fault.

"What's the difference?" Peter asked.

"Well, you got three kinds of crazy," said Deadpool matter-of-factly, as he replaced the boot. "There's the 'psycho' crazy that you way got to avoid! The sort that doesn't _know_ they're crazy, which makes them all dangerous and stuff! Then there's the 'me' crazy, where people _think_ you're psycho crazy only because they don't know no better, but then you have 'cray' crazy! They're the ones people call quirky or eccentric or Lady Gaga! Best kind of crazy!"

"You think Peter's like . . . Lady Gaga?" Peter rolled his eyes behind his mask. "I don't think he's got the kind of hips for those kinds of dresses, plus it'd take a _lot_ more than a drink to get that kid into one. We aren't all blessed with your kind of legs, Wade."

"Aw, Spidey's been checking me out! Nah, he ain't like Lady Gaga, anyway! If anything, he's more like a Taylor Swift or something, you know? Or old school Britney! _Don't we have her 'Baby' outfit somewhere?_ You really want to admit to a schoolgirl outfit? He doesn't have to know it's ours! We can say it was Shiklah or Vanessa's! _Yeah, see_!"

Peter smiled despite himself. There was just something so _comforting_ about Deadpool's unique personality and outlook, as the real mask he wore appeared to be one of happiness, with his smile and jokes hiding the depression and anger. It was something Peter partially envied, as he wanted to see the bright side to things, but he knew – from Bruce and from therapy – that masking the pain only made it so much worse. He needed to treat the disease and not the symptom. Still, it was nice to be treated like a person, rather than a fragile doll about to break. Peter moved over to the ledge, whilst Deadpool stood looking bemused.

"Wait," Deadpool said. "Petey doesn't drink?"

"You wouldn't touch alcohol with a father like Tony Stark, either."

"Man, that blows! _That's what she said!_ " Deadpool ran to the ledge and sat with legs dangling over the edge. "Say, where'd you go anyway? I tried to get an ad out into the papers, but they didn't run it! They never do. Hey, Petey takes photos for the papers, right? I can get him to run the ad next time! Wait . . . no . . . if he knows you, there's no point in running an ad, is there? I can get a whole spread taken out! You wouldn't miss that!"

"You know where S.H.I.E.L.D. is, don't you? Coulson or Preston will let you in, I'm sure, and they know how to get a hold of me." Peter shrugged and looked out over the city. "To be honest, Wade, I wasn't going to come back to work. It was Peter that convinced me. He was the one that reminded me that you can't save everyone, sometimes not even yourself . . ."

"That's what drove you out of the superhero game? You save everyone! You're Spider-Man! Still, you can always save yourself! Unless you're tied up or something, but then that's _totally_ not your fault, unless you asked to be tied up, but that's another issue, isn't it?"

"Huh, I got to say, Wade, you're not at all how Peter said."

"You seem surprised! You've known me for years!"

"Two years, since I started this gig."

Peter kicked at the ledge beside Deadpool – _Wade_ – with a lazy movement, as he felt a strange sense of disassociation. It was as if his mind were in two places, where it was simultaneously picturing what it would be like to jump and what it would be like to stay put, and he felt so trapped. There was no worse feeling than being locked in one's own mind. He looked to Wade, who kicked his legs out like a child and hummed some old song, before he sighed and sat next to him. All that was missing was a hotdog and a soda.

"Peter said you were more . . . observant," he muttered.

The awkward silence was broken only by Wade's laughter, which made Peter turn nervously to look at his friend. It was impossible to read Wade's face, at least beneath the heavy mask, but he could see that his eyebrows were lowered and his jaw was tense, which was somewhat worrying. Wade was _thinking_ and that was never good. He would either run or fight, but fighting wasn't something that Peter wanted at that moment in time, because it would feel too much like a rejection, whilst making Wade run would only make him feel guilty . . .

He felt weird around Wade. It was hard to reconcile the strangely serious man, with the immature and indifferent one beside him. The 'Deadpool' that Peter spoke to on the phone understood his depression, where he was able to address his issues without seeming patronising or making him feel worse, and – whilst their conversations were always casual – they were still able to talk about the important things. The 'Wade' that Spider-Man spoke to seemed to be put on an act, as if he were desperate to seem as silly as possible, and perhaps there was a reason. Sadly, Peter knew he couldn't ask without giving away his true identity.

"Don't we all have two sides to us?" Wade asked.

"More in some cases," Peter admitted. "I've always known that there's another part of you hiding in there, something with great pain and depth and intelligence, a part of you that you keep locked away out of fear . . . I just never thought the difference would be so great."

"Who says there's a difference at all? I still know things! I just choose not to know!"

"That – that makes no sense at all, Wade! You either know or you don't!"

"Nah, selective memory and denial is an awesome talent!"

Wade nudged him in his ribs. It was a playful knock, but it stung just slightly. The older man was unaware of his strength, which made it a good job that Peter was naturally resilient himself, but Wade's teasing tone made him wonder. He looked below at the hundreds of cars that seemed to stand still in the rush-hour traffic, as he thought about how Wade seemed to idolise Spider-Man and probably tried to hide the pain to impress him. It made him wonder why Wade felt Peter was so different. It was then that Wade asked:

"I wanted your advice, Spidey!"

The wind picked up at that moment, which caused Peter to shiver. He regretted not wearing anything beneath the spandex, especially when he _knew_ Wade would be checking him out the moment he stood up, and – frankly – the comments about his 'religion' or 'corresponding shoe size' always made him feel very uncomfortable. The bright side was that they would probably make Wade feel uncomfortable, too, when he learned that the man beneath the suit was the same seventeen-year-old that he acted as something of a mentor and friend towards, which was admittedly . . . _ironic_. Wade turned to Spider-Man for advice and support, but Peter turned to _Deadpool_ for advice and support. It was surreal.

"My advice?" Peter asked. "Why? Agony Aunt return your letters?"

"You get me, sweetums!" Deadpool said with a laugh. "Well, not really, because not even _I_ get me. I guess Al and Weasel and Preston have a good idea, but still not a proper one, although maybe they do . . . Preston was in my head, after all. I just figure _you_ call me 'Wade' a lot, which is totally cool! You never used to! I like it, it's like you've finally realised we're made for each other! You can't fool me, my web-warrior! You were all so kinky with your web-bondage! I'd rather it be in the bedroom, not in the –

" _Okay, okay_! I'll be good! I'll be good! You have that murderous look in your eye! Well, if I could _see_ your eyes . . . I bet they're like 'cerulean orbs' or something! There's this fanfiction writer called Camilla or Kamala or something, has a hard-on for Steve and Tony, but she's cool! I saw on her profile that she's this hardcore Captain Marvel fan and -! _Okay, the point, I know!_ Right, where was I? It's nice when you call me 'Wade' and pat me on the shoulder for a good job, just like it's nice when you sock me for being a douche! People either are too scared to sock me or pity me too much to praise me! I want Petey to see me as a person, too, only I don't want to scare the kid . . . hard to see _this_ as a person, isn't it?"

Wade pulled off his mask.

It sat in his hands almost like a security blanket, where he played with it between his fingers and looked at it with a rather despondent expression. The material let out a somewhat pungent smell, whilst it was clear that parts of it were wet with blood, and the worst part was the moment when a slither of skin pulled away with the mask. That lump of flesh sat awkwardly on the hem of the mask, which forced Peter to draw in deep and slow breaths, because – if he didn't – he would otherwise gag behind his mask.

Wade himself looked worse for wear. It was easy to figure out – over the years – that his healing factor was at constant war with his cancer, so that some days were worse than others, but today seemed exceptionally so, enough that Peter was forced to fight back pity. This was a man that endured decades of emotional agony, trauma, and physical pain . . . he was strong and braved through it all, so pity would be unfair to say the least. Still, underneath the open sores and blisters, behind the smears of blood and angry scars, there was a handsome bone structure and a face filled with soul. Those blue eyes were filled with such despair that – for a moment – Peter feared that Wade might be the one to jump. It was devastating.

It was then that Peter looked away, scared to make his friend think that he was staring in horror, and he smiled sadly to himself in memory of the rare times in which Wade showed his face to him, because he _trusted_ him. The older man showed his face more and more lately, growing to have a confidence that he truly deserved, but clearly he still felt _some_ semblance of self-hatred and self-consciousness, enough that he feared what Peter would see. The wind began to howl, enough that some flakes of skin were ripped away from Wade's face, whilst people below fought the natural force to crawl along the streets.

"You're a good man, Wade," said Peter.

"Nah, Petey's a good man," said Wade with his head low. "I bet he's heard all the fucking stories about me, but he still – I don't know – thinks I'm a _good_ guy or something! He rings me every night, which is awesome, but this whole ' _friend_ ' thing -? I don't know."

"He must have made an impact, if you consider him a friend after just two weeks. I – I wouldn't worry too much, Wade, honestly. You're not the only man that wears a mask . . . I bet Peter's just as worried about showing you his real face, maybe even more so . . . he hasn't got many friends either. I don't know what's worse: never having any or having lost many. Is it worse to grieve for what you had or to never have had it? Superhero Philosophy 101!"

"Both's as bad! Never knew I had a daughter, but when I thought I lost her -? Ha, it's weird! I think sometimes the idea of something is better than the thing itself! It's like you fall in love with the idea of having friends, so that when someone fucking rips out your heart -? They might not have been a friend, but they're still taking that idea away from you!"

"Does Peter know you feel this way? I never knew you felt like this." Peter gave a sigh. "It sounds like you both have the same fears. The reality is that people leave him and die on him, but seems as if people leave you, too, just in different ways . . . people really suck, huh?"

"Nah, but it'd be good if they did!" Deadpool winked behind his mask.

"You know that Peter is seventeen, right?"

Wade pulled an expression of absolute disgust, before he shot Peter a _very_ dark look. It was one that made his blue eyes narrow into almost slits, whilst his chapped lips broke open into dozens of cuts with the pout he wore, and his hands clenched tightly around his mask, before he pulled it on and made sure that 'Deadpool' took over completely. It made Peter hang his head in shame, as he hadn't meant to imply Wade was _that_ kind of guy, but it was something he needed to ask! He scratched his chest in embarrassment, as he felt tears rise quietly.

"What kind of guy do you think I am?" Wade snapped.

"I didn't mean anything by it," said Peter. "Just you make a _lot_ of innuendo."

"Yeah, well, so do _you_. I won't lie, dude! I may ask him out when he's older, but not right now! It'd be way too wrong on way too many levels! I know people think I have no morals, but I draw the line of taking advantage of a grieving teenager going through absolute shit!"

There was no way to know how to react to those words. Peter wanted to blush and smile at the idea Wade could have a _crush_ on him, because Peter was so very unlike Spider-Man! It was one thing to like Spider-Man, who was obnoxious in his confidence and sarcasm, but it was another entirely to like Peter . . . shy and stuttering and nerdy Peter. Still, what felt even better was the _respect_ that was there. He wasn't being treated like a child, as Tony and Steve sometimes did accidentally, and he wasn't being treated as a stereotype, which bullies like Flash always did to him . . . no . . . Wade saw him as a person in pain. Peter knew he was going to regret what he was about to say, but he said it regardless:

"He has school tomorrow, Wade. Finishes at three."

"Yeah? I've got a sock and a tube of lotion in my room. What's your point?"

"First, keep talking like that and the sock is _all_ you'll get for a long time." Peter kicked him hard in his shin. "Second, he hangs around with a few friends of his after school, for revision and extra studying, so you can catch him at the library around four. The girl he'll be with is Mary Jane, a childhood friend, whilst the guy with them will be Sam Alexander. I hear Sam's a total jerk, but he's also a fan of yours, so it's up to you how you treat him."

"Oh! If it works out, do you think he'll want to meet Al and Preston? I know it's weird for a first date, but it's not really a date, is it? Plus, don't friends meet friends' parents? Preston isn't really _my_ parent, but she's _a_ parent, so it way counts! Still, got to show him my face first, right? Weasel said I look like an avocado had sex with an older avocado . . . he's right."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. I know I've said some mean things to you in the past, but you have a kind of Ryan Reynolds thing going on, only with a Nolan North voice . . . assuming the former had a skin condition and the latter had a throat infection."

"Aw, honey, that's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me!"

Peter laughed loudly, as he sensed a mixture of dismissal and acceptance from Wade. The older man may have turned it into a joke, out of a reflexive self-defence mechanism, but he also let slip an ounce of warmth that showed he felt complimented. It made Peter feel infinitely better to know that Wade didn't hold a grudge against his earlier accidental insult, and he hoped that he could get to know _both_ parts of Wade soon, assuming that his friend could look past the big 'secret' of his other identity. He hoped it wouldn't be a betrayal.

"Just confide in him, okay?"

Wade gave a snort of derision. It was clear that he didn't believe that Peter could look past his skin condition, which was – truth be told – a little insulting, as if he thought that the teenager could _really_ be that superficial, but Peter reminded himself that Wade simply was _that_ self-loathing. Peter dreaded to think how tomorrow would go, even as he slowly stood up on the ledge of the building and swallowed hard, as he desperately fought back that never-ending need to just jump. He gave a sigh and looked for the nearest place to swing away.

They remained in a strange sort of quiet for a while, until Wade did a double take and spun his body around. He sat cross-legged, which unfortunately for the angle that Peter stood, exaggerated a part of his body that Peter _really_ didn't need to catch an eyeful, but he forced himself to look away out of respect. Wade merely leant forward and began to wave his arms around rapidly, almost like a comic character in a state of absolute surprise, which was actually somewhat adorable. Peter cricked his neck and aimed his wrist at a nearby building, before he shot a line of webbing and prepared to jump.

"Are you just trying to get me to leave?" Wade asked.

"Yep," admitted Peter. "I've been looking out for a serial criminal. The _last_ thing I need is you to 'help', especially when it took them _days_ to find the dimes in that last guy, and it didn't help that he hadn't teeth to tell them . . . you're _improving_ , but you're not there yet. Seriously, though, I have faith in you and I know Peter does, too. Just make me a promise? Promise you won't hate him when he tells you _his_ secret? He's been through enough."

There was an awkward moment between them, which made Peter's heart sink and his stomach churn, because – more than anything – he feared that maybe Wade already sensed the truth, and maybe the truth simply wasn't good enough. The fear of rejection was replaced by the soft laugh of Wade, as he threw his hands behind his head and clasped them together. It was a few seconds later that the older man threw himself backwards, so that his legs rested on the ledge and his back lay flat upon the roof, and Peter smiled to himself at the sight.

"Fine, I promise!" Wade looked down. "Sure you don't need a hand?"

Peter laughed and shook his head. The very last thing he needed was for Deadpool to piggyback and cause mayhem on a simple task, especially when he _swore_ to his dad and Steve that he wouldn't get into any trouble. He was living on the brink still, barely able to hold it together, and Deadpool . . . well . . . could be a bad influence when the opportunity for chaos reared itself. Peter swung away and saluted Deadpool on his way past.

"Positive," called Peter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"Yo, Earth to Spidey!"

Peter glanced up from his paper. The sight of Sam before him made him frown, especially when the dark-haired teenager apparently forgot the meaning of 'secret identity', but – worse than that – there was the fact he ignored the universal rule of being _quiet_ in a library. Sam sat balanced on the back legs of his chair, whilst his arms were thrown casually behind his head, and only the dark skin of his wrists and face were on show. He opted for a t-shirt thrown over a light sweater, whilst he smirked in a way that made Peter want to web him . . .

It was annoying to be shaken out of his thoughts at the best of times, but least of all by _Sam_ of all things. There was still a very strong part of him that wondered what MJ saw in him, although there was something oddly comforting about her now knowing his secret, and yet it irked him how she gave a small laugh from between them. He would admit he felt somewhat possessive of his childhood friend. MJ should have sided with _him_ , not her boyfriend, but to say that aloud would only start an argument with Sam, and – despite his childish rivalry with his new team-mate – he couldn't do that to MJ. It wasn't fair to put her in the middle.

"I'm – er – kind of . . . waiting for someone," said Peter quietly.

"Is it someone we know?" MJ asked. "Ava or Danny?"

"No, it's – well, it's – it's . . . Deadpool."

Sam gave a loud laugh, so that a nearby person shushed them. He dropped his chair down onto all fours, before he placed both his hands upon his book, which was – Peter noted – stuck on the wrong page. Their table was filled with textbooks, papers, and stationery . . . things conducive to studying and mock exams . . . it was nice to have friends on either side of him, as well as to have a distraction, but it felt _wrong_. He remembered Gwen's planned speech for graduation, one he would never hear her say, and she should have been _with_ them.

It was difficult to focus on the positive. He knew that he should have been grateful for his friends' company, as well as the fact he _was_ here and _was_ passing with flying colours, but there was a part of him that felt lost . . . incomplete . . . like a jigsaw with a central piece missing. Peter drew in a deep breath, before he looked around at the science notes around him. It was something that Gwen would have found easy, whilst his uncle would have found it interesting, and here he was acting as if they never lived, as if they weren't such a vital part of his life. He wondered whether he would always feel this way, as if every moment spent _not_ thinking about them was dishonouring them. Peter shook his head.

MJ seemed somewhat confused, which was enough to pull him out of his depression and focus upon something else, for which he was grateful. The truth was that she knew very little about his life as Spider-Man; he only recently went back to work, whilst his team carried on without him for those past five months, and only recently did he work up the nerve to tell her about his identity. Deadpool hadn't come up yet in conversation, although he wondered whether he let slip 'Wade' in conversation before . . . it was then that MJ pushed back a lock of red hair from her face, as she gave a bright smile and looked to him.

"Who's Deadpool?" MJ asked.

"Deadpool is the best!" Sam chimed. " _The_ best! Everybody loves him!"

"He has a cult following," Peter teased. "Those like Sam love him, whilst others absolutely _hate_ him . . . not many people stand in the middle. He – he's flawed, I admit, but he's got _so much_ potential! He's more complex than people give him credit." Peter shrugged sadly. "I – I've been – I've been talking to him a lot lately . . . he's been helping me through the worst, but I . . . I haven't told him that I'm Spider-Man yet, but I will . . . today."

"Dude, he's so hyped!" Sam chimed in. "I saw him around the Helicarrier yesterday! Apparently Spidey told him to come talk to you or something, which way makes sense now! He thinks he's showing you his real face, so he was all nervous, but I guess he doesn't have to be when you've already seen it! You should have told him, saved him the worry!"

" _No_ , Sam. I like him a lot; he's a good friend, so I want us to have a relationship based on trust. If he can't trust _Peter_ with his face, how could he ever reconcile the fact Spider-Man and Peter are one and the same? Plus, I don't want Spider-Man to tell him the truth."

Peter blushed and looked downwards. The words on the papers before him began to blur, whilst he felt oddly disengaged from his work, and he wondered whether what he said made any sense to his friends. It was dark in the library, which strained his eyes on the page, whilst the upper levels held many people that seemed to mill about on the balcony, and it made him feel . . . _exposed_. He felt afraid about how Wade would feel and how he would react, because he didn't want him to feel uncomfortable. It was never a nice feeling to experience.

"I know you don't see the difference," he muttered, "but I'd rather _Peter_ reveal he's Spider-Man, as opposed to _Spider-Man_ revealing he's Peter. I want us to see each other as people, not kind of . . . _parts_ of people . . . something complete. Does that make sense?"

"It makes sense to me," said MJ. "Spider-Man is just as real as Peter, but they're both such polar opposites in some respects. I guess – once you trust him enough – the two will merge and you'll be honestly able to be your true self, but until then -? It's hard, isn't it? It's like when I did some acting last semester; I knew _logically_ it was me on stage, but I could pretend like I was someone else. It was weird when people from the audience talked to me afterwards, because it felt like those were two different people."

"E-exactly! Plus, what if he doesn't like _Peter_? I – I know I'm kind of nerdy looking, plus I stutter and I'm n-nervous and I -! I'm not like Spider-Man, but I _know_ that I am Spider-Man! If I can't get my head around it, how can Deadpool? He might get it, because he has two faces and two sides to himself, too, but I-I'm _so scared_. I know I can't deal with that kind of rejection, again. I know I'll break if he hates this part of me . . ."

"All _I_ know is I can do with a distraction," said Sam. "This work's too easy!"

"Uh-huh, is that why you're on the wrong chapter?" MJ asked.

"I finished the other two chapters, that's all!"

Peter smiled despite himself. There were a _lot_ of comments from Sam that the work was far easier than anything he learnt back 'home', but Sam was prone to putting on acts at the best of times, enough that he must have understood on some instinctual level what Peter meant. He remembered sadly how much his aunt _loved_ Sam, where she was almost like a mother figure to his friend and teammate, and he wondered how she would have taken the news that he was Spider-Man or the fact he tried to kill himself. Would she be ashamed of him?

He felt an empty sort of fear inside himself, where he wanted to move forward and yet felt mired in the past, and it _trapped_ him. The library began to feel suffocating, until he felt enclosed and bound and subdued. It – it was a terrifying sensation; he felt his breath leave him and his chest grow tight, enough that it felt almost as if someone were standing right upon his sternum, and he began to feel dizzy where he sat. The anxiety was almost as oppressive as the depression, but it was then that he looked to Mary Jane and saw the way she chewed on the end of her pen, as she looked curiously across the library.

"Is that him?" MJ asked.

Peter followed her gaze. It was then he saw a man leaning against the side of a bookcase, where he wore a red hooded top and loose ripped jeans, and he noticed that the man was hunched over with hands in his pockets and his hood lowered over his face. The top was open to reveal a t-shirt of some obscure band, whilst Peter could see how the soles of the man's trainers were coming apart from the shoe itself. He had a sort of . . . casual chic look. Well, that was as close and complimentary as Peter could bring himself to consider the outfit, but he could also see how the man hid in the shadows and hid his face, and then – suddenly – he made his way over to them, with stiff and awkward movements as he walked.

It was then that Peter realised this was _Wade_. This was _Deadpool_! He – he seemed so completely different to what Peter expected, especially when – even unmasked – 'Deadpool' usually exhibited a lot of confidence, enough that he never ceased to be intimidating and always appeared to have an active romantic life. Deadpool was confident enough to have grown out of caring all too much about his face, but this man -? This man reminded Peter of himself at his worst. Wade stood a good few feet from them and shrugged silently.

"Hey, Petey, it's me," said Wade quietly.

He looked better than the day before, so that his sores and open cuts were closed and dried, but it was hard to see with his head so low and the hood so oversized upon him, and it broke Peter's heart considerably. He – he always felt so alone and so inadequate compared to his peers, but he never once thought he might not be alone in his thoughts and feelings, and here – right before him – was living proof that he _wasn't_ alone, only -? Only Wade still felt alone, didn't he? Wade didn't have the support base that Peter slowly realised he had all this time, and so he felt a stab of guilt. He needed to be strong . . . like Deadpool was for him.

"I – er – got my mask, if I need it," he muttered.

"You don't need it," said Peter with a smile. "Want to talk privately?"

"Yeah, probably for the best, don't want to scare your friends and all! _We should be more worried about scaring Petey!_ You are aware he's sitting and we're standing? I believe he can already see us. Shut up, you pair! He can't see us _that_ clearly, anyway!"

"You're right, I can't, but I _want_ to, Wade. I really and honestly do."

"Ha, you say that now, but –! Wait, you called me Wade!"

"Er, S-Spider-Man t-told me. I – I'm sorry . . ."

Wade gave a bright and wide smile. It was possible that he was simply glad that his hero spoke about him with Peter, but it looked more than that somehow. There was a blush on his cheeks visible even through the shadows, just as the tension in his muscles let go just slightly, and it seemed that he cherished the intimacy of simply sharing a name. Peter – as Spider-Man – recalled a few people calling the other man 'Wade', so he wondered why this one moment felt so special to him, but Wade was vulnerable enough as it was . . . he didn't dare ask.

"It's okay, sweetie, I don't mind," said Wade.

"T-that's good, I guess." Peter remembered his manners. "Oh, right! Er, guys? This is W-Wade Wilson . . . you probably know him as Deadpool. H-he's been a pretty amazing friend these past few weeks. Ah, Wade? This – this is Mary Jane . . . MJ for short . . . she's been my best friend since childhood, hoping to be a reporter for the _Daily Bugle_. This guy, however, is her annoying boyfriend . . . _Sam_. If you get an urge to punch him, don't worry. It's normal."

"Oh, yeah, right," Sam snapped, "like you're one to talk! I just hope you know what you're getting into, Deadpool, my man! This guy is _the_ most annoying guy on the planet! All I can say is – if this _is_ really Deadpool – I _so_ hope you're about to get pooled!"

"Yuck! What the hell, Sam? What's that even supposed to -?"

"Like 'schooled', but with 'pool'?"

The laugh from MJ only made the situation worse. He turned with a blush to look at her, but she merely chuckled from behind her hand and shrugged an apology. It was hard not to feel a spark of pain at the laughter, as if she were siding with Sam and _mocking_ him in the process, but he knew – when he forced himself to be reasonable – that wasn't the case at all. Peter looked down at his hands and wondered why the depression made him so paranoid, as if the whole world were laughing at him, before he remembered what Sam said and looked up.

"Yeah, well, it sounded sexual," muttered Peter.

"Only to your dodgy mind, spider-breath!"

"See what I put up with?" MJ added.

There was a soft laugh from Wade, as he joined in with MJ, but it was a lot more subdued and insecure than he usually sounded. He kept his head low and his hands in his pockets, whilst the smile – that Peter could _just_ about see – was somewhat crooked and stiff, and Peter wanted nothing more than to reach out and reassure his friend. Peter stood up slowly, but the gesture seemed to spook Wade. The other man jumped back a step, where the hood creased with the rapid movements of his head shaking from side to side, all in a desperate need to assess his escape route. Peter let out a long sigh and ran a hand through his hair.

"Why don't we go over there, Wade?"

He walked past the many tables in the study-area to the computer lounge, where – luckily – no one was about. It was too early for the students, too late for the workers, and so there was a fortunate period of time where they held the lower floor of the library almost to themselves, especially the computer section in which only those of a certain age seemed to use. Peter leaned against the photocopier, whilst Wade sat on the edge of a desk, where he knocked the mouse and brought up the login screen of the monitor. Peter gave a nervous smile.

"Sorry about them," said Peter.

"Nah, it's cool, they seem nice," replied Wade. "Spidey said you'd be here, but I didn't know whether I would be, you know? I sat outside the library for hours, even watched you come inside! Still, I'm here now . . . figured it'd make sense to introduce myself."

"It's – it's weird, isn't it? I – I mean . . . I've been talking to you for weeks now . . . I've told you stuff that I've never told anyone else . . . you're an amazing friend, but it feels like we're meeting for the first time. I – er – have something to tell you, too, but I don't want to make this all about me, Wade. I need you to know that I don't care how you look, because -!" Peter paused to bit his lip nervously. "I like you for _you_. You have a good soul."

"I ain't got a good soul, kid! Want me to introduce myself? Fine! I'm Wade _fucking_ Wilson! I'm the guy that had a crappy childhood, although the details depend upon the writer, and I'm the guy that became a mercenary for the shits and giggles. I'm the guy that got cancer. I'm the guy that became a monster. I'm the guy that fucking looks like _this_ –"

It was then that Wade ripped off his hood. The general look was one that Peter – as Spider-Man – saw many times in the past, but suddenly he wasn't seeing it as the skin condition of an anti-hero . . . he was seeing it as the pain of a _person_. It was far too easy to separate their superhero identities with their real personas, so that he never really considered the effects it held on 'Wade' before, but now he felt a wave of pain wash over him. The sores and scabs looked agonising, whilst his eyes were yellowed and unfocussed, and Peter wanted to stop the pain. He wanted to help Wade. There was nothing he could do, though . . . he felt helpless.

"Sorry," muttered Wade. "I should have figured you wouldn't want to –"

"Don't," said Peter firmly. "Don't insult yourself, Wade. I – I thought – I thought I should be offended that you'd think me that superficial, but I – I don't feel offended about that . . . I just feel – _I don't know!_ – _hurt_ that you could _ever_ feel that bad about yourself! I – I know what it's l-like to be bullied, but . . . well . . . whoever made you feel that you're not attractive -? I want – no _need_ – you to know they're wrong, okay? _They're wrong_."

"So you're telling me the whole fucking world is 'wrong'?"

"Yes, they're all darned well wrong!"

Peter winced at the volume of his voice. He glanced across to his friends and saw them look over with interest, which was enough to make Peter grab Wade by his wrist and drag him between two nearby bookcases out of sight, and – as he removed his hand – he felt both blood and pus upon his skin. It was something that Wade noticed, which made him try to flee in absolute shame, but Peter grabbed him again and held him back. He tried to make a point of how little he cared by touching his face, but Wade flinched away.

How could anyone _do_ this to Wade? Sure, he had a rough past, but who didn't? Peter started off as nothing but a vigilante, so much so that he still blamed himself for his uncle's death, and he knew the feeling of responsibility and duty. He cared about Wade's face, sure, but _only_ insofar as the fact that those scars stood as a visible reminder of what pain his friend went through, as well as a reminder that Peter couldn't help everyone . . . he couldn't fix this or cure this . . . he could only try to take off the edge and let Wade know that this wasn't his fault. It was no one's fault. Peter slowly removed his hand, before he wiped it on the side of his sweater, before he gave a heavy sigh and locked eyes with Wade.

"I'm not going to lie to you –"

"Oh yeah? Sounds like you just damned did!"

"Just – just _listen_ to me!" Peter paced and clasped his hands behind his neck. "I'm not going to lie to you, because I respect you too much to do that, plus you know I hate those insincere sentiments, so I won't say that you're _conventionally_ handsome, but . . . that doesn't make you ugly or a monster! I'm _proud_ to have you as my friend. If I were a little older, I might even risk asking you out. You're . . . you're not as bad as you think."

"I never thought you were superficial, pal! A superficial guy wouldn't care so much about the pain he causes other people, would he? You're the only guy I know that could try to kill himself over _selfless_ reasons! Still, this mug o' mine -? It's made people _puke_ , sweetums! I might get laid a fair amount, but those are mostly pity fucks. I creep people out!"

"Well, you don't creep me out! You know what I see when I look at you?" Peter poked Wade hard in his chest. "I see a man that is suffering _way_ more than he should! I see a man that deserves a hot bath or some skin lotion or – or – or _something_! I see a man that – _despite_ looking a bit different – _still_ is strong enough to smile and laugh and want to _help_ people! I see a man that is pretty damned ripped, which is _way_ more than other people can achieve and something most people would _envy_! I see a man with expressive and soulful eyes, and I -!"

Wade smiled in such a way that it made Peter blush. He wondered whether anyone ever listed Wade's positive traits before, because he looked both complimented and insulted, as if unsure whether to believe Peter and _wanting_ to believe Peter. Still, as Wade stood in uncharacteristic silence, Peter realised that he spoke so passionately that his stutter left and his confidence returned, which left him feeling more exposed than anything else, because he felt as if a small part of Spider-Man crept through his usual self. He – he just felt so _angry_ that someone could insult Wade! Wade didn't deserve that, even from _himself_! Peter gave a heavy sigh and leaned backwards, with his hands resting on a shelf of hardbacks.

"Why did you keep it secret?" Peter asked. "Your face, I mean."

"It was kind of nice just being seen as a person," said Wade.

The smile that Wade wore was almost dreamlike, as he rubbed lazily at the spot on his chest that Peter poked, and then he looked down at the stain on Peter's top and his smile turned into something a lot more sorrowful. It was enough to break Peter's heart, as he realised just how important it truly was to be seen as oneself . . . he feared telling Wade about his other identity for that exact same reason, because he _liked_ being himself without any prejudices or expectations. Peter hung his head low and gave a smile of his own.

"Yeah, I can get that," replied Peter.

"No way! How can you get it?" Wade shrugged. "My ex was a total babe! You wouldn't believe how amazing Shiklah was! Still, I don't think she ever got that I was a dad and a pal and a wannabe hero, only ever thought of me as her husband and some masked mercenary, you know? I'm either 'the merc with the mouth' or the tragic anti-hero! You -? You remind me so much of Spidey! You see me as a person! You treat me like one, too!"

"I – I'm not special for doing that, Wade. Everyone has the right to be treated with respect, so I don't deserve special treatment for just being nice to you . . . if – if other people are mean to you, it just means they're less than human . . . they're the real monsters. I – I don't – I don't want to trivialise your feelings by saying 'I understand', because _no one_ can understand what it's like to be you . . . you must be in pain all the time, plus your can't hide your illness from the world, not like I can with my depression. I'm – I'm here for you, though."

"Hey, that's not how it works, baby boy!" Wade teased. "I'm the grown-up here, right? _Right_.  Debatable. So it's my job to look out for _you_! My skin won't kill me . . . can't die even when I try to die! You? You're all sad and stuff! I got to make sure my sweetie is okay!"

"H-how about we make sure each other is okay? We can be each other's rock."

"You know I'm not the stable or steady type, right?"

Peter gave a sad smile. He knew what Wade meant was 'dependable', which showed a remarkable self-awareness on the older man's part and a sense of honesty. It was true that Wade tended to think in the short-term, as well as rarely considering the effects of his actions, and he was prone to doing things spontaneously and without thought, but his heart was often in the right place and he could be trusted. Wade exaggerated his flaws, to the point he seemed to define himself by them . . . Peter hoped he could define himself by his virtues instead.

"I trust you," said Peter.

Wade gave a bright smile, which cracked the corner of his lips. He appeared not to feel the pain, as he shuffled from foot to foot and knotted his hands before him, and Peter tried not to look too much at the bare skin of his hands. It felt _good_ that Wade trusted him enough to let them on show, but he also knew how self-conscious Wade could be and how he would probably not want any attention drawn to them. Peter made sure to keep his eyes locked upon the older man's, although the intimacy of the gesture only made him blush slightly.

They stood in an awkward silence for a long while. Peter cast a glance over to his friends, where MJ looked torn between taking a photograph and respecting Wade's privacy, but he knew – from his same passion for photography – that they likely made a rather nice scene together with a lot of soul, but Wade probably wouldn't see it that way. Sam, meanwhile, pulled silly faces and mouthed words that made Peter want to punch him, which was an urge he fought when he tried to make a good impression on Wade. It was then that Wade jumped onto the balls of his feet and wore a childlike expression. He looked rather adorable.

"Say, want to meet Preston and Al?" Wade asked.

"Er, sure, but I need to tell Sam and MJ where I'm going," said Peter. "I also need to call home, so Tony and Steve don't panic and send out the Avengers. They – they should be okay with me going, but let's just say I'm going to talk to Preston . . . just to be safe?"

"Sure! If they ask though, I ain't going to lie and say I wasn't with you!"

"I – ah – also have something to tell you on the way . . ."

Peter blushed all the more, as he ran his hands over the back of his neck, and he couldn't help but fear how the conversation would eventually go between them. If Wade could trust him with something as sensitive as his face, couldn't Peter do the same about his other identity? He swallowed hard and let out a staggered breath. Wade appeared not to notice the anxiety that Peter felt, but they would have to have the conversation sooner or later . . .

"So . . . shall we get going?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

"Bit young for you, isn't he, lad?"

Wade let out a rather dangerous laugh. It was enough for Peter to look down in embarrassment, as he stared awkwardly at his hands in his lap, and he tried – as he felt his heart race and his mouth run dry – embarrassed by the old woman's question. The kitchen suddenly felt rather warm, despite the cool draught that blew in from the open window, and he held a strong urge to tug at his collar. He wanted to _hide_ , but it felt like Wade's entire family sat at the dining table with them! He – he wondered whether he made the right decision in visiting with his friend, especially when he still needed to tell the truth . . .

There was a sigh from Preston, as she sat with a warm cup between her hands. Peter wondered whether she _needed_ to drink, what with her robotic body, but perhaps the warmth reassured her in some way . . . _comforted_ her . . . like it comforted Peter. He heard a soft laugh from Ellie, as she sat opposite next to Wade and lost to his play fighting, whilst Al – with dead eyes focussed upon him – stared with an intensity that was rather intimidating. It was rather clear that she was blind, but she didn't let that hold her back. She stared hard.

The older woman reminded him a little of his aunt. It was a realisation that made him stare down at the pine tabletop with eyes almost blurred with unshed tears, as every glance to her reminded him of the woman he lost. He could see in her the same confidence that once coursed through May, although there was a coarseness and casualness that his aunt lacked, and her short grey hair was even in a similar style to his aunt, whilst her powers of observation bordered on a supernatural level. Heck, this woman could even pass as an older version of the Black Widow . . . well . . . were it not for lack of vision and mobility.

"W-we – we aren't – we aren't a –"

"Relax, sweet-cheeks," chastised Wade. "The old bat _knows_ I ain't like that! She's just upset I changed her denture-glue with superglue, but it's her fault for swapping the coffee beans with pigeon shit! Don't let her get to you, kid! I ain't letting her scare a friend off!"

"Wade, watch your tongue in front of Ellie!" Preston exclaimed. "I'm so sorry, Peter. Just be glad you weren't here for the time we told him to _hold_ his tongue . . . honestly, I'm not sure how poor Ellie isn't more traumatised. Wade has a very good soul, enough that I'm proud to call him my friend, but sometimes I worry about him . . . about others, too . . . you're still young, Peter. Does Tony know about your friendship?"

"N-not yet," said Peter. "I – I know we can't talk _properly_ in front of Ellie, but I know what I'm g-getting into, h-honestly! You – you're right . . . Wade _is_ a good soul, so – so I think that Tony would be cool with use being friends. Well, I think he would understand it, don't you? Wade's the only person I've been able to talk to and trust, and I –!"

"You what, Peter? You can say anything here."

"He's got a crush, that's what," muttered Al.

He looked in horror at Al. There was an almost imperceptible smirk upon her lips, which made him think that he was being played in some way, and he didn't know how to react to a woman like that. She seemed to have a strange sort of relationship with Wade, as both adults strove to prank and annoy the other, but – at the same time – she held an insight into his life that many others lacked. She looked far more dangerous than Wade and Preston combined, which was a hard feat in a frilly yellow dress . . . he wasn't sure how to respond.

"We're just _friends_ ," muttered Peter.

Peter looked to Preston for support. The dark-skinned woman merely smiled innocently, as she gave him a rather pitying look, and Ellie only let out a loud yawn across the table. He – he wouldn't deny that he liked Wade a lot, but Wade believed they only knew each other for _two weeks_ , during which he was recovering from suicidal feelings and a substantial depression, and so even _thinking_ about a relationship was much too soon. That was assuming Wade could forgive him for hiding his secret identity, too.

The fear crept back quickly, as he felt his heart skip a beat in his chest. He _needed_ to tell Wade the truth, but that risked losing the older man from his life, and to lose one more person would be more than he could bear. It was difficult not to feel a great deal of guilt; he could see how Wade laughed and smiled so brightly around Ellie, just as how he seemed to trust Al to an extent that was almost hard to believe, and Preston appeared to read him like a book. There was no way he could hurt Wade . . . bring down his mood after he suffered so much . . . Peter felt himself begin to breathe quickly in fear, as he also knew he couldn't keep it secret.

"Can – can we talk alone for a minute . . . please?"

Preston gave a warm smile, as she nodded and ushered Ellie into the other room. The young girl gave a long sigh and begged to stay longer, but Wade quickly reassured her that he would tuck her in later and read her a story, before the young girl muttered that 'bedtime' wasn't for some hours. Peter smiled sadly at the sight, as he reminisced about his family and how much he would give to have a moment like this again with them, and watched as Ellie hugged Wade and ran out into the lounge with a sudden burst of energy.

"Sure, just call if you need anything," said Preston.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent left quite quickly, although Al took her time and appeared – for a moment – not to move at all. It was then that Al took her cane and wandered out into the lounge with a few shakes of her head, whilst she put her hand onto Peter's shoulder as she passed and whispered to be careful, before she left and said a word to Wade that he didn't dare repeat, even in his mind. Wade merely laughed and said something equally offensive back, as he jumped over the table and took a seat beside Peter, and – when the door finally closed – he let out a loud laugh and draped an arm over Peter's shoulders.

"So what up, baby boy?" Wade asked.

"I – I – I need – I need to – t-to – I need to talk –"

"Hey, slow down! You keep swallowing that much air then you'll end up like a balloon! No one wants that! Too many sharp items around! One little pop and we'll be picking Petey pancreas off the wall! Besides what can be worse than seeing this mug of mine?"

Wade removed his arm to elbow him in the side. It wasn't the self-deprecating humour that affected Peter, although it did hurt him to hear his friend insult himself, but rather it was the intimacy and kindness that the other man showed. Peter just didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve the warmth of another person's body next to him, just as he didn't deserve the sounds of laughter from Ellie in the other room, and he didn't deserve to feel like he _belonged_ when he didn't truly belong anywhere. This – this wasn't his family! It never would be!

It was then that he felt the tears well up, as he drew in gulping breaths. He needed to calm down, but this was such an important secret! What if – what if Wade never forgave him for hiding the truth? What if he lost the closest friend that he could ever remember? The kitchen was smaller than the one back in the tower, enough that he began to feel claustrophobic, and he wanted to leave . . . he – he needed _air_! The tears were rising already, enough that his eyes stung and he could taste salty water upon his lips, and he felt hot and clammy and his chest began to feel tight and -! Peter swallowed hard and tried to remain calm. He felt Wade rubbing circles on his back, warm and rough and somewhat comforting . . .

"I – I'm – I'm so sorry, Wade!" Peter gasped. "I'm so sorry! P-please -! Please don't hate me when I tell you, b-because I can't . . . _I can't lose you_! I've – I've been keeping a secret, but really it's o-only been two weeks, so I – I -! _I'm so sorry, Wade_! I'm so sorry!"

"Come on, kid! There's nothing you've done that you have to be sorry about! If it's my face, I can get that . . . can't say it doesn't hurt any less, but I can get it. _He's crying at the beauty of it!_ He's crying at the horror of it." Wade's smile broke slightly. "That's all it is, right? What else can it be? You ain't . . . you know . . . swallowed anything, have you? I can totally call an ambulance! You want to vomit it up and then drink lots of milk and -!"

"N-no! I – I haven't tried to -! That's – that's not it . . ." Peter swallowed hard and tilted his head back. "I know – I know it took you a _lot_ to show me your face, which I _really_ appreciate! S-so I don't want to _trivialise_ your struggle by -! What I mean is -! I – I have something I need to tell you . . . I just don't want you to hate me for it . . ."

"Yeah? What is it? You don't hate Bea Arthur, do you?"

"I'm Spider-Man," he whispered.

The sudden silence was devastating. Wade removed his arm almost at once, so that the absence of warmth made him feel startlingly cold. He hadn't realised just how much he came to depend upon Wade, as well as the constant reminders of his presence, and he could hear every sharp breath that his friend took . . . he could see how his hands clenched into tight fists upon his legs . . . he knew Wade was angry. Peter made to reach out and take a hold of Wade's arm, but the older man merely pulled away and climbed to his feet.

" _Bullshit_ ," snapped Wade.

"It – it's not a lie! I – I – I'm Spider-Man!"

"This isn't funny, Peter! _You don't get to make shit up to play with me_!"

Wade thought he was lying. It made sense . . . Peter and Spider-Man were such polar opposites, whilst Peter was a virtual stranger to Wade, and Spider-Man was Wade's _hero_ and _crush_. . . there was a _lot_ to reconcile. He would _hate_ himself when he realised that he was crushing on a minor, as well trying to piece together how the two men could be one and the same, and he spent _three years_ knowing Spider-Man . . . he – he might even think that Peter was laughing at him all this time, knowing about Wade but pretending he didn't . . .

The silence was broken by Wade shoving his stool violently, so that the piece of furniture crashed onto the floor as Wade stormed away, and – as he marched – Peter thought he could see tears in the corner of the older man's blue eyes. He felt his stomach churn and his breath leave him, whilst he watched Wade get closer and closer to the door . . . closer to leaving him . . . believing that _another_ person was mocking him and manipulating him. Peter began to choke. He – he couldn't do this – he couldn't -! He raised his hands to grab his hair, but then saw it . . . saw _them_ . . . his web-shooters just tucked underneath his sleeves.

He aimed. He shot. He caught.

It took only one rope of webbing to catch Wade by his waist, where he then yanked and pulled the man towards him, where he span in several circles with the force, in such a way that it reminded him of the day that he told Gwen the truth. Wade caught himself on the edge of the table, but his balance was off and one hand crashed down to clamp onto Peter's shoulder for support. His face was only a few inches from Peter's. The sudden intimacy felt somewhat awkward, but then – with a bright smile – Wade exclaimed:

" _Holy shit_ , you _are_ Spider-Man!"

Wade pulled back, enough that the warm breath on Peter's lips vanished, and – with that – the realisation of just _how_ close they were in that moment. The older man began to pull and play with the threads of webbing, almost like a child with silly-string, and the sadness in his eyes was replaced by an innocent sense of awe, with the tears now gone and his cheeks flushed brightly with pleasure. It was a few seconds later when Wade hopped up onto the table, where he held a glob of webbing between his two hands and began to stretch it.

"I – I'm so sorry I kept it from you," said Peter.

"I can't believe it! I'm best friends with _Spider-Man_?" Wade laughed and tried to wipe the webbing off onto his sleeve. "Wait, are you _sure_ you didn't just borrow his web-shooters or something? You're nothing like Spidey! You're all fragile and stuttering and -! _Whoa_!"

The older man turned white; Peter lifted the table – with Wade upon it – high above him with just one hand, before placing it carefully a few inches over to the left. Wade saw Spider-Man's strength dozens of times, but this was the _first_ time ever seeing _Peter_ able to do anything more than lift his camera or run for a bus, and it must have been quite a shock to his system. He budged a few inches to his side, before he dropped a leg on either side of Peter's stool and rested his arms on his knees, and Peter was forced to swallow nervously at their position, especially when Wade's _parts_ were only a foot or so away from him.

"I thought you were having me on!"

"N-no," said Peter. "W-why would you think that?"

"I showed you my face . . ." Wade shrugged forlornly and lowered his head. "I dated a chick once while I was in my mask, but she thought I was just some chubby-chaser! I proved to her that it weren't like that, only . . . she puked when she saw my face. Plus, I showed you my family, didn't I? Shiklah was _amazing_ , but we weren't right for each other. She thought Ellie was a 'bastard', wanted to have 'legitimate' heirs, didn't understand . . ."

"You – you thought I was overwhelmed? N-no! That's not it at all! I _love_ Ellie; she's great! I – I'll – I'll admit that Al intimidates me a little, but she reminds me of my aunt in some respects . . . Preston's family seem nice, too, so I'd like to get to know them better. Your – your face doesn't bother me either. We've _eaten_ together before! We've _worked_ together, we've _hung out_ together, we've -!" Peter shook his head sadly. "I – I _like_ you, Wade! I like you a lot! It's why – it's why I felt you _needed_ to know the truth . . ."

"Crap, Spider-Man said that -! _You_ said that you wore a mask, too! I didn't realise it was literal! Fuck, I didn't even realise you were the same guy! I had some suspicions, yeah, but I thought they were so damned stupid that -! All this time you were Spidey? I -! Oh, _yuck_ , I used to hit on you! You must have been like fifteen! I'm going to hell . . . so gross!"

"You – you don't go to hell for _flirting_ , plus you didn't exactly know, did you? L-look, you opened up to me and _trusted_ me, enough to show me your real face . . . that meant the absolute _world_ to me. I just wanted to show you that I trust you, too. I honestly do."

"Okay, so . . . why hide it from me at all? You could have just told me."

"I didn't know we were going to be friends . . ."

Peter felt a stab of guilt, as he looked downwards. His arms brushed against the sides of Wade's legs, whilst the air felt thick and heavy, and he realised that – as he stood on the ledge that dark night – he never expected for any of this to happen. The way their friendship bloomed was a mystery even to him, so total honesty from the start just wasn't possible, and it was only very recently that Deadpool became a trustworthy ally to Spider-Man, so it wasn't as if his alter-ego could reveal such a secret either.

It was then that he felt Wade prod at his forehead, but – when he looked up – he saw the man's grubby boot was the very thing that poked at him. Peter swatted it away with revulsion, whilst he tried to rub the grime from his skin, but Wade merely burst out into laughter and dropped his foot back beside the younger man's thigh. Peter spat out his tongue, but Wade – true to form – grabbed it rather quickly between thumb and forefinger, and suddenly Peter began to gag and pulled back, where he _swore_ that he could taste blood in his mouth. He felt a bit childish for what he did next, but biting Wade's index finger _was_ very satisfying . . . even if Wade called him a bitch and swore loudly in pain.

"So why'd you tell me?" Wade asked, as he sucked his finger.

"I – I couldn't tell you at first, because I didn't know this was going to _be_ something," said Peter. "Then time went on and I -! I partly wanted to tell you, because I knew we couldn't _really_ be friends unless we trusted one another . . . I needed you to know that I trust you, Wade, and I could only do that by showing you who I _really_ am! There – there's also the fact that I . . . I wanted you to see me for _me_ , which you – you _did_ during the past two weeks. If I told you, I was scared you might just see me as Spider-Man . . . I didn't want to spoil things."

"Hey, you couldn't spoil anything! Well, you couldn't spoil anything for _Peter_!" Wade jabbed him hard in the forehead again. " _You_ haven't changed, baby boy! If anything, _Spidey_ is the one that's changed! That jerk let me flirt all this time and he's -! I'm _so_ kicking his ass when I see him! _Yeah, we can web him up with his webs!_ That just annoyed him last time. Well, _this_ time, we'll totally own his ass! Wait . . . _not like that_! Way yucky!"

"So you – you don't – you don't hate me? I – I thought you might prefer Spider-Man over me, because he's . . . he's everything I'm _not_. Spider-Man is confident and social and popular, and I -? I don't know. I didn't want to _ruin_ him for you. He's your hero . . . I didn't want to take that away . . . I didn't want to destroy the dream . . ."

"Petey, baby, you are the dream! I know what it's like to hide behind a mask, but – if you ain't afraid of my face – I ain't going to be afraid of your face! You're smart and nice and you don't get sick when you look at me -! No way can I hate you for being you!"

"You hated me when I first told you," said Peter. "I saw it on your face . . ."

"Yeah, I thought you were playing me! You'd be mad, too!"

"I – I suppose you're right," he said with a smile.

It was then that Ellie burst through the door. The young girl bounced on her feet in a way that was _far_ too reminiscent of her father, whilst she dove towards them and placed her hands on Wade's knee to shake him rather violently, which – considering his legs were on either side of Peter still – made the situation _much_ more uncomfortable. Wade placed an affectionate hand upon her brown hair, as he gave a beautiful smile to her, and the sound of laughter from the other room echoed about around them. Ellie gave a beautiful smile of her own, in turn.

"Jeff and I need two more players," Ellie chirped.

Peter looked at the young girl and gave a nervous smile, as he wasn't quite sure how to act around children . . . especially a somewhat traumatised child that belonged to his best friend, which put a _lot_ of pressure on him to be a good role-model. He hoped that she didn't see the tearstains down his cheek, although he knew there was no shame in crying, and he hoped that she wouldn't misunderstand his close proximity to Wade, although he was legal and there was no shame in dating Wade . . . luckily, Wade interrupted the awkward silence.

"We can play!" Wade shouted. "You up for it, sweets?"

"Sure, but be prepared to lose, Wade."

"Sounds like a challenge!"

They looked at each other in silence for a moment. It was a strangely intimate gaze, where he felt as if Wade were looking into his soul rather than at him, and he felt himself blush as he looked downward at his hands. Ellie seemed to run off into the living room, which left them in a strange sort of peaceful quiet . . . eventually Wade swung his legs off the table and jumped down, before he offered Peter a hand to stand up. Peter took it gladly.

"Thank you," said Peter sincerely.


	7. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"Petey, say hello to Tony!"

Peter looked up from his computer screen. He wasn't expecting any guests, least of all his father at this time in the afternoon. The apartment was rather small, just enough space for two people to live closely and comfortably, and he _finally_ had a space to call his own. It was nice to see photographs of his family on the walls, to play his music at whatever volume he liked, and to set his own rules, but – well – it was also a little depressing. There was no one to come home _to_ and no one to _check_ _in_ on him when he felt low . . .

It was reason enough that Tony and Pepper _begged_ for him to stay in the tower, but most college students didn't live with their parents and he wanted the independence and responsibility that he knew Uncle Ben would have wanted him to experience. He worked hard at academia in the day, whilst he worked hard at the _Bugle_ at night, and the routine helped him a lot in establishing a coping mechanism and dealing with his emotions. Wade – who was now knocking out a strange tune on the door – came by every single day to 'hang out', whilst his parents usually just took to ringing him, but they _never_ came together.

Peter gave a low sigh.

There was something suspicious about Tony being with Wade, especially when his father seemed so silent and there was such an odd scratching noise, plus Tony kept a spare key and Wade usually picked the lock. He shook his head and gently closed the laptop, where it gave a soft click and whirred until 'sleep mode' set in. He slowly walked to the door. It was a little embarrassing to have just one open apartment, as it meant that his bedroom was also his living-room, but Peter knew Wade lived in a _lot_ worse, so it wasn't as if he could judge.

"Wade? I didn't think you were stopping by yet," said Peter.

There was a laugh from the other side of the door. It was enough to make Peter's hands pause on the locks and latches, as he felt incredibly suspicious at the sound, but – as he looked through the peephole – he could only see Wade's face and no one else's. He gave a pout and listened a little more to the scratching noises and the strange sounds from beyond, even though they clearly weren't made by Wade and no one else seemed to be in sight, and he could only shake his head and open the door widely to face whatever was out there. It was probably the biggest mistake he could have made, especially on his day off.

"You know it's only two –"

"Say hello to Tony! Happy birthday, baby boy!"

Peter was at once knocked onto the floor. He looked up to see the panting face of a clearly mongrel dog, which _immediately_ began to lick his face and yip excitedly, until Peter pushed the thing away from him and climbed to his feet. Wade merely laughed and slammed the door shut, before he ran over to the sofa-bed and threw himself onto it, and Peter frowned at the sight of his best friend lounging about, as if there _weren't_ a giant dog befriending him.

The creature _looked_ friendly, but it also looked flea-ridden and its fur was matted. Peter could see – on a closer look – that its claws needed cutting quite badly, whilst its ribs were showing under the fur, and it looked quite young . . . it was as if someone threw it away once it grew too big, perhaps not realising the size of whatever one of the breeds were that created it. Still, there was something very alert and intelligent behind its brown eyes, whilst it sniffed at Peter with curiosity before running over to Wade and jumped on his lap. The sofa bed was extended and covered in bed-sheets, which made Peter wince . . . he didn't want to have to clean away dog hair later on. There was enough work to do for college as it was!

He winced as he saw the dog lie its head on his pillow, as it seemed to have a problem with drooling, and Wade – with flaking hands – stroked its body that lay across his legs, although he wore a smile that was absolutely beautiful and made Peter's heart skip just slightly. It took him a minute to calm down, as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He walked over to the sofa bed and collapsed down next to Wade, whilst the dog wagged its tail and made his bare legs feel incredibly cold. It almost made him regret wearing just shorts and a t-shirt. There weren't many times when _Wade_ looked the formal one, especially in a hooded top and jeans.

"You named it Tony?" Peter asked.

"Yeah! I thought it was a bitch at first," chirped Wade. "It seemed the perfect name! Turns out that it's a boy dog, so now I'm thinking 'Spot'. Ellie likes 'Rat-Face', but Preston seems to think 'Go Away' is better . . . Spot's a nice name, though, right? That's like the 'John Smith' of dogs everywhere! Couldn't get more dog-like unless we named him 'Dog'!" Wade paused to gasp. "Oh my God, we should _so_ do that! Do you like being called 'Dog', Dog?"

The creature – surprisingly rat-like in its face, now Wade pointed it out – rolled onto its belly and yipped in excitement, whilst Wade rubbed the dirty and patched fur, and Peter started to feel sorry for the poor thing. It was no wonder that Wade grew attached to it. The older man held quite an affectionate and sentimental side for animals and children, but this one in particular -? There was something so _tragic_ about it; it clearly held a great amount of personality and energy, but it was abandoned by its family and rejected by society. Peter couldn't find the heart to turn the stray away, even though he knew he should.

"I guess we could call it 'Dog'," he muttered. "Wade, I -? I'm juggling college and the _Bugle_ and being Spider-Man. I'm not sure I would have time to look after a dog, too. Where did you even find this fellow, anyway? He's going to need a _lot_ of treatment and care."

"I found him in an alley! I heard him crying when some shit-faced kids were kicking him, so I showed them my face and said: 'I got this from touching that thing, you better go get yourselves checked out by your doctors, it's pretty contagious'. Scared the pants right off two of them! The third just looked sick and left. It's your birthday next week, though, so I thought he could be your present! Happy Twenty-First, Petey! Say hello to Dog!"

"That's wonderful of you, Wade, it really and truly is, but do you see this thing -? I'm going to have to get his claws cut, his fur trimmed for the clumps, rebuild his strength, train him, bathe him, get him checked over by the vet, rid him of all those fleas . . . he's a big dog, too, looks like he may have some collie in him. He'll need twice daily walks and -!"

"That's what boyfriends are for, right? I told you I'd give up the mercenary work, baby boy! It's about time you gave me a key, anyway! I can do all the cooking and look after Dog! Only, I don't clean, so that's way your job! Oh, Ellie can have a sleepover, too!"

"Sure, Ellie can come over any -! Wait. _What?_ B-boyfriends?"

"That's what we are, ain't we?"

The look that Wade wore was absolutely beautiful. Those blue eyes were filled with absolute awe, whilst his expression looked so serene that it made him seem younger than his years, and he even moved his hand to rest it on Peter's bare leg. It was intimate enough that Peter blushed immensely and realised that Wade _honestly_ thought they were dating, and suddenly all those stolen touches and brushes and hugs in the past month took on a new context. He knew that he probably ought to push that hand away, but he liked it . . .

It was then that Dog jumped up and began to lick Wade's face, whilst the older man let out a loud laugh and began to fuss the large creature, and he didn't seem the least bit disturbed by the stray puppy's exuberance. Peter felt a shred of guilt. If he told Wade that they _weren't_ dating, it would be like kicking that same puppy! They both experienced such hardships and constant rejection, both found happiness in Peter's small apartment, and here Peter was about to take all that away. He _wanted_ to ask Wade out, sure! He didn't though, because he never wanted Wade to feel like a rebound! Did 'too soon' mean nothing to Wade?

"I – I only broke up with Johnny last month," muttered Peter.

The reaction from Wade was instant. It was enough to make Peter's stomach churn and his mouth run dry, and he was forced to blink to keep away tears, especially when he strove so much in the past few years to be stronger and less emotional as a person. Still, he could see how Wade paled, just as he saw how Wade pushed the dog to lie flat on his lap again, and he could even see how much confusion ran through Wade's eyes. The older man looked somewhere between furious and devastated, but – most of all – he seemed simply _perplexed_ , as if the whole world were turned upside-down around him. Peter gave a sad smile.

It made him want to reach out to Wade, but – as he raised his hand – Wade flinched and wrapped his arms tightly around Dog, which he held like a lifeline. He brought the dog upwards, so that it lay against his body, before he buried his head in its fur. Peter bit his lip hard to stave away the pain at seeing his best friend so hurt, especially when he _swore_ to never hurt him. Peter knew how it felt to be depressed, especially as his suicide attempt still plagued him to this day emotionally, and he _never_ wanted for Wade to ever feel that way.

"We went on dates, though!" Wade exclaimed

"W-we did?" Peter asked. "I – I thought we were just hanging out."

"No way! I asked you if you wanted to go out, you said yes! We went and got chimichangas; remember? You told me about your break-up, then we got talking about what you wanted from a relationship, and I've been hanging out here all the time since!"

"I – I thought you meant 'go out' literally! I didn't think you -!"

"You thought I meant just as friends?"

Wade's face fell into a sorrowful smile. It was enough that Peter felt his breath escape him, as he tried at once to reassure his friend and tell him the truth: he _wanted_ something more between them. The problem was that Wade was already on his feet, as he pulled out a red collar and quickly put it onto Dog's neck, whilst he blatantly strove to avoid eye-contact with Peter and prepared to leave. There was never an awkward moment between them in the past four years, but suddenly it felt like their entire relationship was being thrown away . . .

It was still early in the day, so the light from the large windows only illuminated Wade's features and made the pain all the more visible. The situation was barely bearable as it was, but then Wade pulled up his hood and put his hands into his pockets, which was the moment that broke Peter and his heart skipped a beat. If – if he let Wade believe the worst, there was _no way_ he would overcome a depression like that. Wade shrugged, whilst Dog whined and began to pace a little, perhaps out of fear he would be thrown away just like his master, and Peter was forced to breathe deep to keep control.

"No worries!" Wade laughed. "I should have known, right?"

"No, _I_ should have known," said Peter. "Listen, I'm a bit slow sometimes, but you can't hold that against me, right? Plus, we have a dog now . . . break-ups always hit the children hardest, you know that." Peter gave a nervous smile. "How about a date that I _know_ I'm on?"

Wade looked beyond shocked. The way his mouth opened and closed reminded Peter of a fish out of water, whilst _admitting_ aloud that he liked Wade was so revealing! He felt exposed and vulnerable, as if he were offering his heart to the other man, and – for a moment – he was terrified that Wade might think him not worth the effort . . . maybe he would be too angry at the mix-up to _want_ to date him . . . Peter fidgeted with his hands and looked down at his lap. He sat cross-legged and missed the strange sigh that came from Wade.

"Really?" Wade asked.

" _Really_ ," said Peter with a racing heart. "I've liked you for years, Wade! I just couldn't ask you out when I was still just a kid, but then time moved on and I met Johnny . . . I didn't think I had any shot with you, that I was 'friend-zoned', so I tried to forget it. It's kind of a relief to know that it's not one-sided and that I have a shot, so . . . a date? A _real_ date?"

"Sure thing, Petey! Way to put the pressure on me, though! I thought we were _already_ dating, but now you're telling me I have to top those dates with some super special date! I was going to ask you out, right before your nineteenth, but then you dated the douche from doom! I'd so accuse you of having lousy taste, but you _are_ into me! Well, not _into_ me, as we're so not at that point yet of our relationship! Still, the way I hear it, you were never _into_ Johnny either."

Peter lifted his head to glare at Wade, before he grabbed a cushion and aimed for his friend's – no, his _boyfriend's_ – head. The older man laughed loudly and swatted it away. It was enough to make Peter pout and attempt to move away, but Wade merely threw himself down hard upon his side of the sofa bed, whilst the dog yipped in excitement and crawled next to Wade and nuzzled under his arm. Peter gave a heavy sigh and looked coldly to Wade, because – no matter how close they were – he did _not_ want to discuss his physical relationship with Johnny. He folded his arms and shook his head.

"What base that Johnny and I got to –"

"Yeah, yeah," said Wade. "I know you can be all healthy and sexual without dipping the oil-stick in the tank, but it's still good to know that no one's been lifting the hood of my Petey-car! I hated every time I saw his hands on you! Can't believe you let him move in!"

"Are you -? Are you the one that cut holes into all of Johnny's clothes? He – he thought I did that to get back at him for an argument we had that -! _Oh God_ , this explains why his side of the bed mysteriously became drenched in what I _hope_ was water, and why loads of rumours about him were leaked to the press, and why that 'mystery' neighbour kept blasting death metal at night . . . you are so _petty_ at times! You couldn't have _told_ me you wanted me to break up with him? I would have -! I would have left him!"

"Exactly! I ain't going to be the one that breaks you up with other people! I ain't like that! _Well, not any more_. It's nice we can grow as people. _Do voices count as people?_ Anyway -! I didn't want to be all controlling or manipulative and shit! I didn't want to push you to be with me, because you'd just resent me and our relationship would be all unequal and stuff and -! I don't know! It was easier to annoy the flaming pile of rod-milk than risk playing with you!"

"From you -? That's almost romantic." Peter gave a sigh and reached out to stroke Dog. "Thank you for letting me work things out for myself. It probably was for the best. I _know_ I want this now, plus I know what I _don't_ want from a relationship, too, so we can work together properly to create something that works for us both. Thank you for being patient."

"I wasn't _that_ patient! I may have had a couple of flings whilst you were with Mr My-Head-Looks-Like-A-Flaming-Ball-Sack! There was one point I thought you'd _never_ leave him, because why would you want to leave him for someone like me? Sorry, Petey . . ."

"There's a lot we need to work on, huh? Like your low self-esteem."

"Says the depressive guy that's riddled with guilt!"

Peter gave a short laugh and pulled back. It would have been easier to fuss Dog with the dog between them, but the animal seemed attached to Wade and wary of Peter, and he realised it would take time to gain its trust. Still, they _did_ have a lot to work on together. Wade didn't truly believe he was 'worthy' of a relationship with Peter, whilst Peter lived in fear of ever hurting Wade, and nothing would work between them should they always walk on tiptoes. They needed to _trust_ one another, as well as _believe_ they could work.

The relationship he held with Johnny was . . . unbalanced. He didn't want Wade to idolise him like he did Spider-Man, just as he needed to remind himself that Wade also held problems that needed to be dealt with, as such they needed to support each other. Peter reached out slowly to put his hand next to Wade's, as he felt his heart race and his breath speed up, and he wondered whether Wade would mind this kind of intimacy, but then he _did_ touch Peter's leg earlier . . . it was unlikely he would mind too much. It took only a second to wrap his hand around Wade's, when he felt Wade turn his hand over to hold back. The smile that the older man wore was as beautiful as the blush on his cheeks.

"I think we could work, Wade," said Peter.

Wade squeezed hard on his hand, as he shuffled closer to Peter and rested his head upon the younger man's shoulder. It was nice to be so close to one another, whilst Peter couldn't resist placing a soft kiss to the top of that warm head, and he drew in a deep breath to catch all the unique scents that made up Wade. They lay quietly for a while, until Dog crawled over and stretched in front of Wade, whilst he laid his head in Peter's lap with panting breath. Peter used his free hand to stroke the dog's head with a smile.

"Yeah?" Wade asked. "I promise I got your back, sweetie!"

"I know you do," said Peter. "I also know you can be a little unreliable. You _missed_ Thanksgiving with Ellie once, and that's not something of which I want a repeat! I don't want to change you, though . . . I want us to _help_ each other, be _there_ for each other . . . we get each other, when no one else does. I like finally having an equal and a relationship of give-and-take, where we can compromise and work together . . . I like _you_ , Wade."

"Nah, you _love_ me! You just don't want to admit it! Now when I tell people we're like lovers, it'll actually be true! I'm going to take you on the _best_ official first date ever! Why don't we take Ellie and Al to the aquarium? It'll be fun! I'll buy you popcorn and stuff!"

"Sure, it's a deal," replied Peter with a laugh. "You know how they seal deals?"

"With a kiss! You sure you want to kiss this, though? I mean I –"

Peter didn't give him a chance to finish. He reached over to place a kiss to Wade's lips, where he felt a kind of nervousness that he hadn't felt in a long time . . . he felt _alive_. Wade's lips were dry and cracked, nothing at all like Gwen or Johnny's, but – after a second of still surprise – he moved with a passion that shocked Peter and caused him to open his mouth with a loud gasp. Wade stole the opportunity to deepen the kiss, so that suddenly Peter could taste the faint traces of Mexican food and something that may have been blood.

He kissed well . . . a little _too_ well. Peter let go of Wade's hand and pushed his boyfriend away, where he threw back his head and gasped for breath, as he felt a flush overcome his entire body and parts of him grow . . . well . . . just _grow_. Wade wore a rather dangerous smirk, as his fingers traced patterns on the back of Peter's neck. It was then he saw Wade lick his lips and remembered just _how_ flirtatious he could be; it was well known that Wade kept quite a healthy sex-life, as well as that he rather enjoyed physical intimacy, and Peter couldn't help but feel a strange anxiety at what they would eventually do. He wanted to do it, but he was also _very_ thankful that Wade was the patient sort.

"Fuck," whispered Wade. "I love you, too."

"It feels like a dream," said Peter. "I don't want to wake up."

There was a laugh from Wade, who pulled him into a warm hug. It was gentle and romantic, with no expectation of anything more, but he could feel against his leg that Wade was just as excited about the prospect as he felt. They held each other for a long moment, until Wade began to place kisses down his neck and whispered how lucky he was to have Peter in his life, and Peter – for the first time in a long time – felt _complete_. Wade said softly:

"Then don't."


End file.
